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thropic Societies 


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00022094252 


JH  123481  

I 
Burnett 

This  BOOK  may  be  kept  out  TWO  WEEKS 

Sara   Crei      ONLY,    and    is    subject    to    a    fine    of    FIVE 

CENTS  a  day  thereafter.   It  was  taken  out  on 

the  day  indicated  below: 


DATE 


MAY    3   '48 


■ty24'40 
MAR  ?     |9s|p 
Apft  3  1990 


cs 


Lib.  lOM-Fe  '38 


SARA  CREWE 

LITTLE   SAINT   ELIZABETH 

AND  OTHER  STORIES 


Mrs.  BURNETT'S  FAMOUS  JUVENILES 


LITTLE  LORD  FAUNTLEROY 

SARA   CREWE,  LITTLE   SAINT   ELIZABETH,  and 
Other  Stories 

GIOVANNI  AND  THE  OTHER 

PICCINO,  and  Other  Child  Stories 

TWO  LITTLE  PILGRIMS'  PROGRESS.    A  Story  «f 
the  City  Beautiful 


LITTLE  LORD  FAUNTLEROY.    Illustrated  in  color 
A  LITTLE  PRINCESS.    Illustrated  in  color 
THE  ONE  I  KNEW  THE  BEST  OF  ALL 


CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2012  with  funding  from 

University  of  North  Carolina  at  Chapel  Hill 


http://www.archive.org/details/saracrewelittlesburnett 


"  SHE    LAID    HER   DOLL,    EMILY,    ACROSS   HER   KNEES,    AND    PUT    HER    FACE 
DOWN   UPOX  HER,   AND  HER  ARMS  AROUND  HER,   AND   SAT  THERE, 
NOT   SAYING    ONE   WORD,    NOT   MAKING    ONE    SOUND."' 


SARA  CREWE 

LITTLE   SAINT   ELIZABETH 


Bnt>  ©tber  Stortes 


BY 

FRANCES  HODGSON  BURNETT 


NEW  YORK 
CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS 
1923 


Copybight,  1888,  1890,  1897,  b» 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


Copyright,  1916,  1918,  by 
FRANCES  HODGSON  BURNETT 


[All  rights  reserved] 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


r-4 


CONTENTS 


Sara  Crewe, 


PAGE 

/ 


Z.////«?  Stf/tf/  Elizabeth, #5 

Tfo  Story  of  Prince  Fairy  foot,    .       .       .       »  137 

The  Proud  Little  Grain  of  Wheat,      .       .       .  187 

Behtnd  the  White  Brick,      .       .,       .       .       .  2li 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

FROM  DRA  WINGS  BY  REGINALD  B.  BIRCH 

PAGE 

"  She  laid  her  doll,  Emily,  across  her  knees,  and  put  her 
face  down  upon  her,  and  her  arms  around  her, 
and  sat  there,  not  saying  one  word,  not  making 
one  sound" Frontispiece 

"  She  slmvly  advanced  into  the  parlor,  clutching  her 

doll" it 

'■'  Eat  it"  said  Sara,  "  and  you  will  not  be  so  hungry,"    .      jq 

"  He  was  waiting  for  his  Master  to  come  out  to  the  car- 
riage, and  Sara  stopped  and  spoke  a  few  words  to 
him"      .........      4? 

"  The  monkey  seemed  much  interested  in  her  remarks"  .      61 

"  He  drew  her  small,  dark  head  down  upon  his  knee  and 

stroked  her  hair," Si 

"  There  she  is,"  they  would  cry, 8g 

It  was  Aunt  Clotilde,  who  had  sunk  forward  while 

kneeling  at  prayer,         ......      0jr 


x  List  of  Illustrations 

PAGE 

The  Villagers  did  not  stand  in  awe  of  her,        .         .         .  joj 

"  Uncle  Bertrand,"  said  the  child,  clasping  her  hands,   .  ioq 

"Why  is  it  that  you  cry?"  she  asked  gently,     .         .         .  123 

Her  strength  deserted  her — she  fell  upon  her  knees  in  the 

snow,      . iji 

"  Why,"  exclaimed  Fairy  foot,  "  I'm  surprised,"      .        .  14.7 

"  What's  the  matter  with  the  swine?  "  he  asked,       .        .  ijp 

Almost  immediately  they  found  themselves  in  a  beautiful 

little  dell, 163 

Fairyfoot  loved  her  in  a  moment,  and  he  knelt  on  one 

knee, 181 

*  There's  the  cake"  he  said, 207 

"Eh!  Eh!"  he  said.    "  What!     What!     Who's  this 

Tootsicums  ?" 9SJ 


SARA  CREWE 

OR 
WHAT   HAPPENED   AT  MISS  MINCHISTS 


SARA  CREWE 


OR 


WHAT  HAPPENED  AT  MISS  MINCHlN'h 

IN  the  first  place,  Miss  Minchin  lived  in  Lon. 
don.  Her  home  was  a  large,  dull,  tall  one,  in  a 
large,  dull  square,  where  all  the  houses  were  alike, 
and  all  the  sparrows  were  alike,  and  where  all  the 
door-knockers  made  the  same  heavy  sound,  and 
on  still  days — and  nearly  all  the  days  were  still — 
seemed  to  resound  through  the  entire  row  in 
which  the  knock  was  knocked.  On  Miss  Min- 
chin's  door  there  was  a  brass  plate.  On  the  brass 
plate  there  was  inscribed  in  black  letters, 


MISS  MINCHIN'S 
SELECT  SEMINARY  FOR  YOUNG  LADIES 


Little  Sara  Crewe  never  went  in  or  out  of  the 
house  without  reading  that  door-plate  and  re« 
fleeting  upon  it.    By  the  time  she  was  twelve,  she 


4  Sara  Crewe;  or, 

had  decided  that  all  her  trouble  arose  because,  in 
the  first  place,  she  was  not  "  Select,"  and  in  the 
second,  she  was  not  a  "  Young  Lady."  When  she 
was  eight  years  old,  she  had  been  brought  to  Miss 
Minchin  as  a  pupil,  and  left  with  her.  Her  papa 
had  brought  her  all  the  way  from  India.  Her 
mamma  had  died  when  she  was  a  baby,  and  her 
papa  had  kept  her  with  him  as  long  as  he  could. 
And  then,  finding  the  hot  climate  was  making  her 
very  delicate,  he  had  brought  her  to  England  and 
left  her  with  Miss  Minchin,  to  be  part  of  the  Se- 
lect Seminary  for  Young  Ladies.  Sara,  who  had 
always  been  a  sharp  little  child,  who  remembered 
things,  recollected  hearing  him  say  that  he  had 
not  a  relative  in  the  world  whom  he  knew  of,  and 
so  he  was  obliged  to  place  her  at  a  boarding- 
school,  and  he  had  heard  Miss  Minchin's  estab- 
lishment spoken  of  very  highly.  The  same  day, 
he  took  Sara  out  and  bought  her  a  great  many 
beautiful  clothes — clothes  so  grand  and  rich  that 
only  a  very  young  and  inexperienced  man  would 
have  bought  them  for  a  mite  of  a  child  who  was 
to  be  brought  up  in  a  boarding-school.  But  the 
fact  was  that  he  was  a  rash,  innocent  young  man, 
and  very  sad  at  the  thought  of  parting  with  his 
little  girl,  who  was  all  he  had  left  to  remind  him 
of  her  beautiful  mother,  whom  he  had  dearly 
loved.  And  he  wished  her  to  have  everything 
the  most  fortunate  little  girl  could  have ;  and  so, 


What  Happened  at  Miss  Mine  kin's       5 

when  the  polite  saleswomen  in  the  shops  said, 
"  Here  is  our  very  latest  thing  in  hats,  the  plumes 
are  exactly  the  same  as  those  we  sold  to  Lady 
Diana  Sinclair  yesterday,"  he  immediately  bought 
what  was  offered  to  him,  and  paid  whatever  was 
asked.  The  consequence  was  that  Sara  had  a 
most  extraordinary  wardrobe.  Her  dresses  were 
silk  and  velvet  and  India  cashmere,  her  hats  and 
bonnets  were  covered  with  bows  and  plumes,  her 
small  undergarments  were  adorned  with  real  lace, 
and  she  returned  in  the  cab  to  Miss  Minchin's 
with  a  doll  almost  as  large  as  herself,  dressed 
quite  as  grandly  as  herself,  too. 

Then  her  papa  gave  Miss  Minchin  some  money 
and  went  away,  and  for  several  days  Sara  would 
neither  touch  the  doll,  nor  her  breakfast,  nor  her 
dinner,  nor  her  tea,  and  would  do  nothing  but 
crouch  in  a  small  corner  by  the  window  and  cry. 
She  cried  so  much,  indeed,  that  she  made  herself 
ill.  She  was  a  queer  little  child,  with  old-fash- 
ioned ways  and  strong  feelings,  and  she  had 
adored  her  papa,  and  could  not  be  made  to  think 
that  India  and  an  interesting  bungalow  were  not 
better  for  her  than  London  and  Miss  Minchin's 
Select  Seminary.  The  instant  she  had  entered 
the  house,  she  had  begun  promptly  to  hate  Miss 
Minchin,  and  to  think  little  of  Miss  Amelia  Min- 
chin, who  was  smooth  and  dumpy,  and  lisped,  and 
was  evidently  afraid   of   her  older  sister.     Miss 


0  Sara  Crewe;  or 

Minchin  was  tall,  and  had  large,  cold,  fishy  eyes, 
and  large,  cold  hands,  which  seemed  fishy,  too, 
because  they  were  damp  and  made  chills  run 
down  Sara's  back  when  they  touched  her,  as 
Miss  Minchin  pushed  her  hair  off  her  forehead 
and  said : 

"A  most  beautiful  and  promising  little  girl, 
Captain  Crewe.  She  will  be  a  favorite  pupil; 
quite  a  favorite  pupil,  I  see." 

For  the  first  year  she  was  a  favorite  pupil ;  at 
least  she  was  indulged  a  great  deal  more  than  was 
good  for  her.  And  when  the  Select  Seminary 
went  walking,  two  by  two,  she  was  always  decked 
out  in  her  grandest  clothes,  and  led  by  the  hand, 
at  the  head  of  the  genteel  procession,  by  Miss 
Minchin  herself.  And  when  the  parents  of  any 
of  the  pupils  came,  she  was  always  dressed  and 
called  into  the  parlor  with  her  doll ;  and  she  used 
to  hear  Miss  Minchin  say  that  her  father  was  a 
distinguished  Indian  officer,  and  she  would  be 
heiress  to  a  great  fortune.  That  her  father  had 
inherited  a  great  deal  of  money,  Sara  had  heard 
before;  and  also  that  some  day  it  would  be 
hers,  and  that  he  would  not  remain  long  in  the 
army,  but  would  come  to  live  in  London.  And 
every  time  a  letter  came,  she  hoped  it  would 
say  he  was  coming,  and  they  were  to  live  to- 
gether again. 

But  about  the  middle  of  the  third  year  a  letter 


What  Happened  at  Miss  Mine  kin  s       J 

came  bringing  very  different  news.  Because  he 
was  not  a  business  man  himself,  her  papa  had 
given  his  affairs  into  the  hands  of  a  friend  he 
trusted.  The  friend  had  deceived  and  robbed 
him.  All  the  money  was  gone,  no  one  knew  ex- 
actly where,  and  the  shock  was  so  great  to  the 
poor,  rash  young  officer,  that,  being  attacked  by 
jungle  fever  shortly  afterward,  he  had  no  strength 
to  rally,  and  so  died,  leaving  Sara,  with  no  one  to 
take  care  of  her. 

Miss  Minchin's  cold  and  fishy  eyes  had  never 
looked  so  cold  and  fishy  as  they  did  when  Sara 
went  into  the  parlor,  on  being  sent  for,  a  few  days 
after  the  letter  was  received. 

No  one  had  said  anything  to  the  child  about 
mourning,  so,  in  her  old-fashioned  way,  she  had 
decided  to  find  a  black  dress  for  herself,  and  had 
picked  out  a  black  velvet  she  had  outgrown,  and 
came  into  the  room  in  it,  looking  the  queerest  lit- 
tle figure  in  the  world,  and  a  sad  little  figure  too. 
The  dress  was  too  short  and  too  tight,  her  face 
was  white,  her  eyes  had  dark  rings  around  them, 
and  her  doll,  wrapped  in  a  piece  of  old  black 
crape,  was  held  under  her  arm.  She  was  not  a 
pretty  child.  She  was  thin,  and  had  a  weird,  in- 
teresting  little  face,  short  black  hair,  and  very 
large,  green-gray  eyes  fringed  all  around  with 
heavy  black  lashes. 

"  I  am  the  ugliest  child  in  the  school,"  she  had 


£  Sara   Crewe',  or 

said  once,  after  staring  at  herself  in  the  giass  for 
some  minutes. 

But  there  had  been  a  clever,  good-natured  little 
French  teacher  who  had  said  to  the  music-master : 

"  Zat  leetle  Crewe.  Vat  a  child !  A  so  ogly 
beauty !  Ze  so  large  eyes !  ze  so  little  spirituelle 
face.     Waid  till  she  grow  up.     You  shall  see  !  " 

This  morning,  however,  in  the  tight,  small 
black  frock,  she  looked  thinner  and  odder  than 
ever,  and  her  eyes  were  fixed  on  Miss  Minchin 
with  a  queer  steadiness  as  she  slowly  advanced 
into  the  parlor,  clutching  her  doll. 

"  Put  your  doll  down  !  "  said  Miss  Minchin. 

"  No,"  said  the  child,  "  I  won't  put  her  down ; 
I  want  her  with  me.  She  is  all  1  have.  She  has 
stayed  with  me  all  the  time  since  my  papa  died." 

She  had  never  been  an  obedient  child.  She  had 
had  her  own  way  ever  since  she  was  born,  and 
there  was  about  her  an  air  of  silent  determination 
under  which  Miss  Minchin  had  always  felt  secretly 
uncomfortable.  And  that  lady  felt  even  now  that 
perhaps  it  would  be  as  well  not  to  insist  on  her 
point.  So  she  looked  at  her  as  severely  as  pos- 
sible. 

"You  will  have  no  time  for  dolls  in  future," 
she  said ;  "  you  will  have  to  work  and  improve 
yourself,  and  make  yourself  useful." 

Sara  kept  the  big  odd  eyes  fixed  on  her  teacher 
and  said  nothing;. 


What  Happened  at  Miss  Mine  kins       9 

"  Everything  will  be  very  different  now,"  Miss 
Minchin  went  on.  "  I  sent  for  you  to  talk  to 
you  and  make  you  understand.  Your  father 
is  dead.  You  have  no  friends.  You  have  no 
money.  You  have  no  home  and  no  one  to  take 
care  of  you." 

The  little  pale  olive  face  twitched  nervously, 
but  the  green-gray  eyes  did  not  move  from  Miss 
Minchin's,  and  still  Sara  said  nothing. 

"  What  are  you  staring  at?"  demanded  Miss 
Minchin  sharply.  "Are  you  so  stupid  you  don't 
understand  what  I  mean  ?  I  tell  you  that  you  are 
quite  alone  in  the  world,  and  have  no  one  to  do 
anything  for  you,  unless  I  choose  to  keep  you 
here." 

The  truth  was,  Miss  Minchin  was  in  her  worst 
mood.  To  be  suddenly  deprived  of  a  large  sum 
of  money  yearly  and  a  show  pupil,  and  to  find 
herself  with  a  little  beggar  on  her  hands,  was 
more  than  she  could  bear  with  any  degree  of  calm- 
ness. 

"  Now  listen  to  me,"  she  went  on,  "  and  re- 
member  what  I  say.  If  you  work  hard  and  pre- 
pare to  make  yourself  useful  in  a  few  years,  1 
shall  let  you  stay  here.  You  are  only  a  child, 
but  you  are  a  sharp  child,  and  you  pick  up  things 
almost  without  being  taught.  You  speak  French 
very  well,  and  in  a  year  or  so  you  can  begin 
to  help  with  the  younger  pupils.    By  the  time 


io  Sara  Crewe*  or, 

you  are  fifteen  you  ought  to  be  able  to  do  that 
much  at  least." 

"I  can  speak  French  better  than  you,  now," 
said  Sara ;  "  I  always  spoke  it  with  my  papa  in 
India."  Which  was  not  at  all  polite,  but  was 
painfully  true ;  because  Miss  Minchin  could  not 
speak  French  at  all,  and,  indeed,  was  not  in  the 
least  a  clever  person.  But  she  was  a  hard,  grasp- 
ing business  woman ;  and,  after  the  first  shock  of 
disappointment,  had  seen  that  at  very  little  ex- 
pense to  herself  she  might  prepare  this  clever, 
determined  child  to  be  very  useful  to  her  and 
save  her  the  necessity  of  paying  large  salaries  to 
teachers  of  languages. 

"  Don't  be  impudent,  or  you  will  be  punished," 
she  said.  "  You  will  have  to  improve  your  man. 
ners  if  you  expect  to  earn  your  bread.  You  are 
not  a  parlor  boarder  now.  Remember  that  if  you 
don't  please  me,  and  I  send  you  away,  you  have 
no  home  but  the  street.     You  can  go  now." 

Sara  turned  away. 

"  Stay,"  commanded  Miss  Minchin,  "  don't  you 
intend  to  thank  me  ?  " 

Sara  turned  toward  her.  The  nervous  twitch 
was  to  be  seen  again  in  her  face,  and  she  seemed 
to  be  trying  to  control  it. 

"  What  for  ?  "  she  said. 

"  For  my  kindness  to  you,"  replied  Miss  Min- 
chin.     "  For  my  kindness  in  giving  you  a  home/ 


'SHE  SLOWLY  ADVANCED  INTO  THE  PARLOR,  CLUTCHING  HER  DOLL." 


What  Happened  at  Miss  Minchiris     13 

Sara  went  two  or  three  steps  nearer  to  her. 
Her  thin  little  chest  was  heaving-  up  and  down, 
and  she  spoke  in  a  strange,  unchildish  voice. 

"  You  are  not  kind,"  she  said.  "  You  are  not 
kind."  And  she  turned  again  and  went  out  of 
the  room,  leaving  Miss  Minchin  staring  after 
her  strange,  small  figure  in  stony  anger. 

The  child  walked  up  the  staircase,  holding 
tightly  to  her  doll  ;  she  meant  to  go  to  her  bed- 
room, but  at  the  door  she  was  met  by  Miss 
Amelia. 

"  You  are  not  to  go  in  there,"  she  said.  "  That 
is  not  your  room  now." 

"  Where  is  my  room  ?  "  asked  Sara. 

"You  are  to  sleep  in  the  attic  next  to  the 
cook." 

Sara  walked  on.  She  mounted  two  flights 
more,  and  reached  the  door  of  the  attic  room, 
opened  it  and  went  in,  shutting  it  behind  her. 
She  stood  against  it  and  looked  about  her.  The 
room  was  slanting-roofed  and  whitewashed ;  there 
was  a  rusty  grate,  an  iron  bedstead,  and  some  odd 
articles  of  furniture,  sent  up  from  better  rooms 
below,  where  they  had  been  used  until  they  were 
considered  to  be  worn  out.  Under  the  skylight 
in  the  roof,  which  showed  nothing  but  an  ob- 
long piece  of  dull  gray  sky,  there  was  a  battered 
old  red  footstool. 

Sara  went  to  it  and  sat  down.    She  was  a  queer 


14  Sara  Crewe  /  or 

child,  as  I  have  said  before,  and  quite  unlike  other 
children.  She  seldom  cried.  She  did  not  cry 
now.  She  laid  her  doll,  Emily,  across  her  knees, 
and  put  her  face  down  upon  her,  and  her  arms 
around  her,  and  sat  there,  her  little  black  head 
resting  on  the  black  crape,  not  saying  one  word, 
not  making  one  sound. 

From  that  day  her  life  changed  entirely.  Some- 
times she  used  to  feel  as  if  it  must  be  another  life 
altogether,  the  life  of  some  other  child.  She  was 
a  little  drudge  and  outcast ;  she  was  given  her 
lessons  at  odd  times  and  expected  to  learn  with- 
out being  taught;  she  was  sent  on  errands  by 
Miss  Minchin,  Miss  Amelia  and  the  cook.  No- 
body took  any  notice  of  her  except  when  they 
ordered  her  about.  She  was  often  kept  busy  all 
day  and  then  sent  into  the  deserted  school-room 
with  a  pile  of  books  to  learn  her  lessons  or  prac- 
tise at  night.  She  had  never  been  intimate  with 
the  other  pupils,  and  soon  she  became  so  shabby 
that,  taking  her  queer  clothes  together  with  her 
queer  little  ways,  they  began  to  look  upon  her  as 
a  being  of  another  world  than  their  own.  The  fact 
was  that,  as  a  rule,  Miss  Minchin's  pupils  were 
rather  dull,  matter-of-fact  young  people,  accus- 
tomed to  being  rich  and  comfortable ;  and  Sara, 
with  her  elfish  cleverness,  her  desolate  life,  and 
her  odd  habit  of  fixing  her  eyes  upon  them  and 


What  Happened  at  Miss  Mine  kins     15 

staring  them  out  of  countenance,  was  too  much 
for  them. 

"  She  always  looks  as  if  she  was  finding  you 
out,"  said  one  girl,  who  was  sly  and  given  to  mak- 
ing mischief.  "  I  am,"  said  Sara  promptly,  when 
she  heard  of  it.  "  That's  what  I  look  at  them  for. 
I  like  to  know  about  people.  I  think  them  over 
afterward." 

She  never  made  any  mischief  herself  or  inter- 
fered with  any  one.  She  talked  very  little,  did  as 
she  was  told,  and  thought  a  great  deal.  Nobody 
knew,  and  in  fact  nobody  cared,  whether  she  was 
unhappy  or  happy,  unless,  perhaps,  it  was  Emily, 
who  lived  in  the  attic  and  slept  on  the  iron  bed- 
stead at  night.  Sara  thought  Emily  understood 
her  feelings,  though  she  was  only  wax  and  had  a 
habit  of  staring  herself.  Sara  used  to  talk  to  her 
at  night. 

"  You  are  the  only  friend  I  have  in  the  world," 
she  would  say  to  her.  "  Why  don't  you  say  some- 
thing ?  Why  don't  you  speak  ?  Sometimes  I  am 
sure  you  could,  if  you  would  try.  It  ought  to 
make  you  try,  to  know  you  are  the  only  thing  I 
have.  If  I  were  you,  I  should  try.  Why  don't 
you  try  ?  " 

It  really  was  a  very  strange  feeling  she  had 
about  Emily.  It  arose  from  her  being  so  desolate. 
She  did  not  like  to  own  to  herself  that  her  only 
friend,  her  only  companion,  could  feel  and  hear 


1 6  Sara  Crewe;  or 

nothing.  She  wanted  to  believe,  or  to  pretend  to 
believe,  that  Emily  understood  and  sympathized 
with  her,  that  she  heard  her  even  though  she  did 
not  speak  in  answer.  She  used  to  put  her  in  a 
chair  sometimes  and  sit  opposite  to  her  on  the  old 
red  footstool,  and  stare  at  her  and  think  and  pre- 
tend about  her  until  her  own  eyes  would  grow 
large  with  something  which  was  almost  like  fear, 
particularly  at  night,  when  the  garret  was  so  still, 
when  the  only  sound  that  was  to  be  heard  was  the 
occasional  squeak  and  scurry  of  rats  in  the  wain- 
scot. There  were  rat-holes  in  the  garret,  and 
Sara  detested  rats,  and  was  always  glad  Emily 
was  with  her  when  she  heard  their  hateful  squeak 
and  rush  and  scratching.  One  of  her  "  pretends  " 
was  that  Emily  was  a  kind  of  good  witch  and 
could  protect  her.  Poor  little  Sara !  everything 
was  "  pretend  "  with  her.  She  had  a  strong  im- 
agination ;  there  was  almost  more  imagination 
than  there  was  Sara,  and  her  whole  forlorn, 
uncared-for  child-life  was  made  up  of  imagin- 
ings. She  imagined  -and  pretended  things  until 
she  almost  believed  them,  and  she  would  scarcely 
have  been  surprised  at  any  remarkable  thing  that 
could  have  happened.  So  she  insisted  to  herself 
that  Emily  understood  all  about  her  troubles  and 
was  really  her  friend. 

"  As  to  answering,"  she  used  to  say,  "  1  don't 
answer  very  often.     I  never  answer  when  I  can 


What  Happened  at  Miss  Mine  kins     17 

help  it.  When  people  are  insulting  you,  there  is 
nothing  so  good  for  them  as  not  to  say  a  word — 
just  to  look  at  them  and  think.  Miss  Minchin 
turns  pale  with  rage  when  I  do  it.  Miss  Amelia 
looks  frightened,  so  do  the  girls.  They  know  you 
are  stronger  than  they  are,  because  you  are  strong 
enough  to  hold  in  your  rage  and  they  are  not, 
and  they  say  stupid  things  they  wish  they  hadn't 
said  afterward.  There's  nothing  so  strong  as 
rage,  except  what  makes  you  hold  it  in — that's 
stronger.  It's  a  good  thing  not  to  answer  your 
enemies,  I  scarcely  ever  do.  Perhaps  Emily  is 
more  like  me  than  I  am  like  myself.  Perhaps  she 
would  rather  not  answer  her  friends,  even.  She 
keeps  it  all  in  her  heart." 

But  though  she  tried  to  satisfy  herself  with 
these  arguments,  Sara  did  not  find  it  easy.  When, 
after  a  long,  hard  day,  in  which  she  had  been  sent 
here  and  there,  sometimes  on  long  errands, 
through  wind  and  cold  and  rain ;  and,  when  she 
came  in  wet  and  hungry,  had  been  sent  out  again 
because  nobody  chose  to  remember  that  she  was 
only  a  child,  and  that  her  thin  little  legs  might  be 
tired,  and  her  small  body,  clad  in  its  forlorn,  too 
small  finery,  all  too  short  and  too  tight,  might  be 
chilled;  when  she  had  been  given  only  fcarsh 
words  and  cold,  slighting  looks  for  thanks ;  when 
the  cook  had  been  vulgar  and  insolent ;  when 
Miss  Minchin  had  been  in  hex  worst  moods,  and 
s 


1 8  Sara  Crewe;  or 

when  she  had  seen  the  girls  sneering  at  her  among 
themselves  and  making  fun  of  her  poor,  outgrown 
clothes — then  Sara  did  not  find  Emily  quite  all 
that  her  sore,  proud,  desolate  little  heart  needed 
as  the  doll  sat  in  her  little  old  chair  and  stared. 

One  of  these  nights,  when  she  came  up  to  the 
garret  cold,  hungry,  tired,  and  with  a  tempest 
raging  in  her  small  breast,  Emily's  stare  seemed 
so  vacant,  her  sawdust  legs  and  arms  so  limp  and 
inexpressive,  that  Sara  lost  all  control  over  her- 
self. 

"  I  shall  die  presently  ! "  she  said  at  first. 

Emily  stared. 

"  I  can't  bear  this!  "  said  the  poor  child,  trem- 
bling. "  I  know  I  shall  die.  I'm  cold,  I'm  wet,  I'm 
starving  to  death.  I've  walked  a  thousand  miles 
to-day,  and  they  have  done  nothing  but  scold  me 
from  morning  until  night.  And  because  I  could 
not  find  that  last  thing  they  sent  me  for,  they 
would  not  give  me  any  supper.  Some  men 
laughed  at  me  because  my  old  shoes  made  me 
slip  down  in  the  mud.  I'm  covered  with  mud 
now.     And  they  laughed !     Do  you  hear  !  " 

She  looked  at  the  staring  glass  eyes  and  com- 
placent wax  face,  and  suddenly  a  sort  of  heart- 
broken rage  seized  her.  She  lifted  her  little  sav- 
age hand  and  knocked  Emily  off  the  chair,  burst- 
ing  into  a  passion  of  sobbing. 

a  You    are    nothing    but  a  doll ! "    she  cried 


What  Happened  at  Miss  Mine  kins     19 

"Nothing  but  a  doll — doll — doll !  You  care  for 
nothing.  You  are  stuffed  with  sawdust.  You 
never  had  a  heart.  Nothing  could  ever  make  you 
feel.     You  are  a  doll !  " 

Emily  lay  upon  the  floor,  with  her  legs  igno- 
miniously  doubled  up  over  her  head,  and  a  new 
flat  place  on  the  end  of  her  nose ;  but  she  was  still 
calm,  even  dignified. 

Sara  hid  her  face  on  her  arms  and  sobbed. 
Some  rats  in  the  wall  began  to  fight  and  bite  each 
other,  and  squeak  and  scramble.  But,  as  I  have 
already  intimated,  Sara  was  not  in  the  habit  of 
crying.  After  a  while  she  stopped,  and  when  she 
stopped  she  looked  at  Emily,  who  seemed  to  be 
gazing  at  her  around  the  side  of  one  ankle,  and 
actually  with  a  kind  of  glassy-eyed  sympathy. 
Sara  bent  and  picked  her  up.  Remorse  over- 
took her. 

"  You  can't  help  being  a  doll,"  she  said,  with  a 
resigned  sigh,  "  any  more  than  those  girls  down- 
stairs can  help  not  having  any  sense.  We  are  not 
all  alike.     Perhaps  you  do  your  sawdust  best." 

None  of  Miss  Minchin's  young  ladies  were  very 
remarkable  for  being  brilliant ;  they  were  select, 
but  some  of  them  were  very  dull,  and  some  of 
them  were  fond  of  applying  themselves  to  their 
lessons.  Sara,  who  snatched  her  lessons  at  all 
sorts  of  untimely  hours  from  tattered  and  dis- 
carded  books,  and   who  had   a  hungry  craving 


20  Sara   Crewe  j  or 

for  ^everything  readable,  was  often  severe  upon 
them  in  her  small  mind.  They  had  books  they 
never  read ;  she  had  no  books  at  all.  If  she  had 
always  had  something  to  read,  she  would  not 
have  been  so  lonely.  She  liked  romances  and 
history  and  poetry  ;  she  would  read  anything. 
There  was  a  sentimental  housemaid  in  the  estab- 
lishment who  bought  the  weekly  penny  papers, 
and  subscribed  to  a  circulating  library,  from 
which  she  got  greasy  volumes  containing  stories 
of  marquises  and  dukes  who  invariably  fell  in 
love  with  orange-girls  and  gypsies  and  servant- 
maids,  and  made  them  the  proud  brides  of  coro- 
nets ;  and  Sara  often  did  parts  of  this  maid's 
work  so  that  she  might  earn  the  privilege  of  read- 
ing these  romantic  histories.  There  was  also  a 
fat,  dull  pupil,  whose  name  was  Ermengarde  St. 
John,  who  wa^  one  of  her  resources.  Ermen- 
garde had  an  intellectual  father,  who,  in  his  de- 
spairing desire  to  encourage  his  daughter,  con- 
stantly sent  her  valuable  and  interesting  books, 
which  were  a  continual  source  of  grief  to  her. 
Sara  had  once  actually  found  her  crying  over  a 
big  package  of  them. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  you?  "  she  asked  her, 
perhaps  rather  disdainfully. 

And  it  is  just  possible  she  would  not  have 
spoken  to  her,  if  she  had  not  seen  the  books.  The 
sight  of  books  always  gave  Sara  a  hungry  feeling, 


What  Happened  at  Miss  Mine  kins     2\ 

and  she  could  not  help  drawing  near  to  them  if 
only  to  read  their  titles. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  you  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  My  papa  has  sent  me  some  more  books," 
answered  Ermengarde  woefully,  "  and  he  expects 
me  to  read  them." 

"Don't  you  like  reading?"  said  Sara. 

"  I  hate  it ! "  replied  Miss  Ermengarde  St. 
John.  "  And  he  will  ask  me  questions  when  he 
sees  me  :  he  will  want  to  know  how  much  I  re- 
member ;  how  would  you  like  to  have  to  read  all 
those?" 

"  I'd  like  it  better  than  anything  else  in  the 
world,"  said  Sara. 

Ermengarde  wiped  her  eyes  to  look  at  such  a 
prodigy. 

"  Oh,  gracious ! "  she  exclaimed. 

Sara  returned  the  look  with  interest.  A  sud- 
den plan  formed  itself  in  her  sharp  mind. 

"  Look  here !  "  she  said.  "  If  you'll  lend  me 
those  books,  I'll  read  them  and  tell  you  every- 
thing that's  in  them  afterward,  and  I'll  tell  it  to 
you  so  that  you  will  remember  it.  I  know  I  can. 
The  ABC  children  always  remember  what  I 
tell  them." 

"  Oh,  goodness ! "  said  Ermengarde.  "  Do  you 
think  you  could  ?  " 

"  I  know  I  could,"  answered  Sara.  "  I  like  to 
read,  and   I  always  remember.     I'll  take  care  of 


22  Sara   Crewe  ;  or 

the  ,books,  too  ;  they  will  look  just  as  new  as  they 
do  now,  when  I  give  them  back  to  you." 

Ermengarde  put  her  handkerchief  in  her  pocket. 

"  If  you'll  do  that,"  she  said,  "and  if  you'll  make 
me  remember,  I'll  give  you — I'll  give  you  some 
money." 

"  I  don't  want  your  money,"  said  Sara.  "  I  want 
your  books — I  want  them."  And  her  eyes  grew 
big  and  queer,  and  her  chest  heaved  once. 

"Take  them,  then,"  said  Ermengarde;  "  I  wish 
I  wanted  them,  but  I  am  not  clever,  and  my  father 
is,  and  he  thinks  I  ought  to  be." 

Sara  picked  up  the  books  and  marched  off  with 
them.  But  when  she  was  at  the  door,  she  stopped 
and  turned  around. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  tell  your  father?"  she 
asked. 

"  Oh,"  said  Ermengarde,  "  he  needn't  know ; 
he'll  think  I've  read  them." 

Sara  looked  down  at  the  books ;  her  heart  real- 
ly began  to  beat  fast. 

"  I  won't  do  it,"  she  said  rather  slowly,  "  if  you 
are  going  to  tell  him  lies  about  it — I  don't  like 
lies.  Why  can't  you  tell  him  I  read  them  and 
then  told  you  about  them  ?  " 

"  But  he  wants  me  to  read  them,"  said  Ermen- 
garde. 

"  He  wants  you  to  know  what  is  in  them,"  said 
Sara ;  "  and  if  I  can  tell  it  to  you  in  an  easy  way 


What  Happened  at  Miss  Minchiris     23 

and  make  you  remember,  I  should  think  he  would 
like  that." 

"  He  would  like  it  better  if  I  read  them  myself," 
replied  Ermengarde. 

"  He  will  like  it,  I  dare  say,  if  you  learn  any- 
thing in  any  way,"  said  Sara.  "  I  should,  if  I  were 
your  father." 

And  though  this  was  not  a  flattering  way  of 
stating  the  case,  Ermengarde  was  obliged  to  admit 
it  was  true,  and,  after  a  little  more  argument,  gave 
in.  And  so  she  used  afterward  always  to  hand 
over  her  books  to  Sara,  and  Sara  would  carry 
them  to  her  garret  and  devour  them  ;  and  after 
she  had  read  each  volume,  she  would  return  it 
and  tell  Ermengarde  about  it  in  a  way  of  her  own. 
She  had  a  gift  for  making  things  interesting. 
Her  imagination  helped  her  to  make  everything 
rather  like  a  story,  and  she  managed  this  matter 
so  well  that  Miss  St.  John  gained  more  informa- 
tion from  her  books  than  she  would  have  gained 
if  she  had  read  them  three  times  over  by  her  poor 
stupid  little  self.  When  Sara  sat  down  by  her 
and  began  to  tell  some  story  of  travel  or  history, 
she  made  the  travellers  and  historical  people 
seem  real ;  and  Ermengarde  used  to  sit  and  re- 
gard her  dramatic  gesticulations,  her  thin  little 
flushed  cheeks,  and  her  shining,  odd  eyes  with 
amazement. 

"  It  sounds  nicer  than  it  seems  in  the  book,"  she 


*4  Sara   Crewe  ;  or 

would  say.  "  I  never  cared  about  Mary, 
Queen  of  Scots,  before,  and  I  always  hated  the 
French  Revolution,  but  you  make  it  seem  like  a 
story." 

"  It  is  a  story,"  Sara  would  answer.  "  They  are 
all  stories.  Everything  is  a  story — everything  in 
this  world.  You  are  a  story — I  am  a  story — Miss 
Minchin  is  a  story.  You  can  make  a  story  out  of 
anything." 

"  I  can't,"  said  Ermengarde. 

Sara  stared  at  her  a  minute  reflectively. 

"  No,"  she  said  at  last.  "  I  suppose  you  couldn't. 
You  are  a  little  like  Emily." 

"  Who  is  Emily  ?  " 

Sara  recollected  herself.  She  knew  she  was 
sometimes  rather  impolite  in  the  candor  of  her 
remarks,  and  she  did  not  want  to  be  impolite  to  a 
girl  who  was  not  unkind — only  stupid.  Notwith- 
standing all  her  sharp  little  ways  she  had  the  sense 
to  wish  to  be  just  to  everybody.  In  the  hours 
she  spent  alone,  she  used  to  argue  out  a  great 
many  curious  questions  with  herself.  One  thing 
she  had  decided  upon  was,  that  a  person  who  was 
clever  ought  to  be  clever  enough  not  to  be  unjust 
or  deliberately  unkind  to  any  one.  Miss  Minchin 
was  unjust  and  cruel,  Miss  Amelia  was  unkind 
and  spiteful,  the  cook  was  malicious  and  hasty- 
tempered — they  all  were  stupid,  and  made  her 
despise  them,  and  she  desired  to  be  as  unlike  them 


What  Happened  at  Miss  Minchiris     25 

as  possible.  So  she  would  be  as  polite  as  she 
could  to  people  who  in  the  least  deserved  polite- 
ness. 

"  Emily  is — a  person — I  know,"  she  replied. 

"Do  you  like  her?  "  asked  Ermengarde. 

"  Yes,  I  do,"  said  Sara. 

Ermengarde  examined  her  queer  little  face  and 
figure  again.  She  did  look  odd.  She  had  on, 
that  day,  a  faded  blue  plush  skirt,  which  barely 
covered  her  knees,  a  brown  cloth  sacque,  and  a 
pair  of  olive-green  stockings  which  Miss  Minchin 
had  made  her  piece  out  with  black  ones,  so  that 
they  would  be  long  enough  to  be  kept  on.  And 
yet  Ermengarde  was  beginning  slowly  to  admire 
her.  Such  a  forlorn,  thin,  neglected  little  thing 
as  that,  who  could  read  and  read  and  remember 
and  tell  you  things  so  that  they  did  not  tire  you 
all  out !  A  child  who  could  speak  French,  and 
who  had  learned  German,  no  one  knew  how ! 
One  could  not  help  staring  at  her  and  feeling  in- 
terested, particularly  one  to  whom  the  simplest 
lesson  was  a  trouble  and  a  woe. 

"  Do  you  like  me  ?  "  said  Ermengarde,  finally,  at 
the  end  of  her  scrutiny. 

Sara  hesitated  one  second,  then  she  answered  : 

"  I  like  you  because  you  are  not  ill-natured— I 
like  you  for  letting  me  read  your  books — I  like 
you  because  you  don't  make  spiteful  fun  of  me  for 
what  I  can't  help.     It's  not  your  fault  that- — " 


26  Sara   Crewe  /  or 

She  pulled  herself  up  quickly.  She  had  oeen 
going-  to  say,  "  that  you  are  stupid." 

"  That  what  ?  "  asked  Ermengarde. 

"  That  you  can't  learn  things  quickly.  If  you 
can't,  you  can't.  If  I  can,  why,  I  can — that's  all." 
She  paused  a  minute,  looking  at  the  plump  face 
before  her,  and  then,  rather  slowly,  one  of  her 
wise,  old-fashioned  thoughts  came  to  her. 

"  Perhaps,"  she  said,  "  to  be  able  to  learn  things 
quickly  isn't  everything.  To  be  kind  is  worth  a 
good  deal  to  other  people.  If  Miss  Minchin  knew 
everything  on  earth,  which  she  doesn't,  and  if  she 
was  like  what  she  is  now,  she'd  still  be  a  detesta- 
ble thing,  and  everybody  would  hate  her.  Lots  of 
clever  people  have  done  harm  and  been  wicked. 
Look  at  Robespierre " 

She  stopped  again  and  examined  her  compan- 
ion's countenance. 

"  Do  you  remember  about  him  ?"  she  demand- 
ed.   "  I  believe  you've  forgotten." 

"  Well,  I  don't  remember  all  of  it,"  admitted 
Ermengarde. 

"  Well,"  said  Sara,  with  courage  and  determi- 
nation, "  I'll  tell  it  to  you  over  again." 

And  she  plunged  once  more  into  the  gory  rec- 
ords of  the  French  Revolution,  and  told  such 
stories  of  it,  and  made  such  vivid  pictures  of  its 
horrors,  that  Miss  St.  John  was  afraid  to  go  to 
bed  afterward,  and  hid  her  head  under  the  blank- 


What  Happened  at  Miss  Minchiris     27 

ets  when  she  did  go,  and  shivered  until  she  fell 
asleep.  But  afterward  she  preserved  lively  rec- 
ollections of  the  character  of  Robespierre,  and 
did  not  even  forget  Marie  Antoinette  and  the 
Princess  de  Lamballe. 

"  You  know  they  put  her  head  on  a  pike  and 
danced  around  it,"  Sara  had  said  ;  "  and  she  had 
beautiful  blonde  hair ;  and  when  I  think  of  her,  I 
never  see  her  head  on  her  body,  but  always  on  a 
pike,  with  those  furious  people  dancing  and  howl- 
ing." 

Yes,  it  was  true ;  to  this  imaginative  child 
everything  was  a  story;  and  the  more  books  she 
read,  the  more  imaginative  she  became.  One  of 
her  chief  entertainments  was  to  sit  in  her  garret, 
or  walk  about  it,  and  "  suppose  "  things.  On  a 
cold  night,  when  she  had  not  had  enough  to  eat, 
she  would  draw  the  red  footstool  up  before  the 
empty  grate,  and  say  in  the  most  intense  voice : 

"  Suppose  there  was  a  grate,  wide  steel  grate 
here,  and  a  great  glowing  fire — a  glowing  fire — 
with  beds  of  red-hot  coal  and  lots  of  little  danc- 
ing, flickering  flames.  Suppose  there  was  a  soft, 
deep  rug,  and  this  was  a  comfortable  chair,  all 
cushions  and  crimson  velvet ;  and  suppose  I  had 
a  crimson  velvet  frock  on,  and  a  deep  lace  collar, 
like  a  child  in  a  picture ;  and  suppose  all  the  rest 
of  the  room  was  furnished  in  lovely  colors,  and 
there   were   book  -  shelves  full   of  books,   which 


28  Sara  Crewe;  or 

changed  by  magic  as  soon  as  you  had  read  them ; 
and  suppose  there  was  a  little  table  here,  with  a 
snow-white  cover  on  it,  and  little  silver  dishes, 
and  in  one  there  was  hot,  hot  soup,  and  in  an- 
other a  roast  chicken,  and  in  another  some  rasp- 
berry-jam tarts  with  criss-cross  on  them,  and  in 
another  some  grapes;  and  suppose  Emily  could 
speak,  and  we  could  sit  and  eat  our  supper,  and 
then  talk  and  read ;  and  then  suppose  there  was 
a  soft,  warm  bed  in  the  corner,  and  when  we  were 
tired  we  could  go  to  sleep,  and  sleep  as  long  as 
we  liked." 

Sometimes,  after  she  had  supposed  things  like 
these  for  half  an  hour,  she  would  feel  almost 
warm,  and  would  creep  into  bed  with  Emily  and 
fall  asleep  with  a  smile  on  her  face. 

"  What  large,  downy  pillows ! "  she  would 
whisper.  "  What  white  sheets  and  fleecy  blank- 
ets ! "  And  she  almost  forgot  that  her  real  pil- 
lows had  scarcely  any  feathers  in  them  at  all, 
and  smelled  musty,  and  that  her  blankets  and 
coverlid  were  thin  and  full  of  holes. 

At  another  time  she  would  "  suppose  "  she  was 
a  princess,  and  then  she  would  go  about  the  house 
with  an  expression  on  her  face  which  was  a  source 
of  great  secret  annoyance  to  Miss  Minchin,  be- 
cause it  seemed  as  if  the  child  scarcely  heard  the 
spiteful,  insulting  things  said  to  her,  or,  if  she 
heard  them,  did  not  care  for  them  at  all.     Some. 


What  Happened  at  Miss  Minchiris     ?g 

times,  while  she  was  hi  the  midst  of  some  harsh 
and  cruel  speech,  Miss  Minchin  would  find  the 
ociJ,  unchildish  eyes  fixed  upon  her  with  some- 
thing like  a  proud  smile  in  them.  At  such  times 
she  did  not  know  that  Sara  was  saying  to  herself : 

"  You  don't  know  that  you  are  saying  these 
things  to  a  princess,  and  that  if  I  chose  I  could 
wave  my  hand  and  order  you  to  execution.  I 
only  spare  you  because  I  am  a  princess,  and  you 
are  a  poor,  stupid,  old,  vulgar  thing,  and  don't 
know  any  better." 

This  used  to  please  and  amuse  her  more  than 
anything  else ;  and  queer  and  fanciful  as  it  was, 
she  found  comfort  in  it,  and  it  was  not  a  bad 
thing  for  her.  It  really  kept  her  from  being 
made  rude  and  malicious  by  the  rudeness  and 
malice  of  those  about  her. 

"  A  princess  must  be  polite,"  she  said  to  herself. 
And  so  when  the  servants,  who  took  their  tone 
from  their  mistress,  were  insolent  and  ordered 
her  about,  she  would  hold  her  head  erect,  and 
reply  to  them  sometimes  in  a  way  which  made 
them  stare  at  her,  it  was  so  quaintly  civil. 

"  I  am  a  princess  in  rags  and  tatters,"  she  would 
think,  "  but  I  am  a  princess,  inside.  It  would  be 
easy  to  be  a  princess  if  I  were  dressed  in  cloth-of- 
gold ;  it  is  a  great  deal  more  of  a  triumph  to  be 
one  all  the  time  when  no  one  knows  it.  There 
was  Marie  Antoinette:  when  she  was  in  prison, 


30  Sara   Crewe  j  or 

and>  her  throne  was  gone,  and  she  had  only  a 
black  gown  on,  and  her  hair  was  white,  and  they 
insulted  her  and  called  her  the  Widow  Capet, — 
she  was  a  great  deal  more  like  a  queen  then  than 
when  she  was  so  gay  and  had  everything  grand. 
I  like  her  best  then.  Those  howling  mobs 
of  people  did  not  frighten  her.  She  was  stronger 
than  they  were  even  when  they  cut  her  head 
off." 

Once  when  such  thoughts  were  passing  through 
her  mind  the  look  in  her  eyes  so  enraged  Miss 
Minchin  that  she  flew  at  Sara  and  boxed  her  ears. 

Sara  awakened  from  her  dream,  started  a  little, 
°jid  then  broke  into  a  laugh. 

•'  What  are  you  laughing  at,  you  bold,  impu- 
dent child  ! "  exclaimed  Miss  Minchin. 

It  took  Sara  a  few  seconds  to  remember  she  was 
a  princess.  Her  cheeks  were  red  and  smarting 
from  the  blows  she  had  received. 

"  I  was  thinking,"  she  said. 

"  Beg  my  pardon  immediately,"  said  Miss  Min- 
chin. 

"  I  will  beg  your  pardon  for  laughing,  if  it  was 
rude,"  said  Sara ;  "  but  I  won't  beg  your  pardon 
for  thinking." 

"What  were  you  thinking?"  demanded  Miss 
Minchin.  "How  dare  you  think?  What  were 
you  thinking?" 

This  occurred  in  the  school-room,  and  all  the 


What  Happened  at  Miss  Mine  kins     31 

girls  looked  up  from  their  books  to  listen.  It  al 
ways  interested  them  when  Miss  Minchin  flew  at 
Sara,  because  Sara  always  said  something  queer, 
and  never  seemed  in  the  least  frightened.  She 
was  not  in  the  leaot  frightened  now,  though  her 
boxed  ears  were  scarlet,  and  her  eyes  were  as 
bright  as  stars. 

"  1  was  thinking,"  she  answered  gravely  and 
quite  politely,  "  that  you  did  not  know  what  you 
were  doing." 

"  That  I  did  not  know  what  I  was  doing !  "  Miss 
Minchin  fairly  gasped. 

"  Yes,"  said  Sara,  "  and  I  was  thinking  what 
would  happen,  if  I  were  a  princess  and  you  boxed 
my  ears — what  I  should  do  to  you.  And  I  was 
thinking  that  if  I  were  one,  you  would  never  dare 
to  do  it,  whatever  I  said  or  did.  And  I  was  think- 
ing how  surprised  and  frightened  you  would  be 
if  you  suddenly  found  out -" 

She  had  the  imagined  picture  so  clearly  be- 
fore her  eyes,  that  she  spoke  in  a  manner  which 
had  an  effect  even  on  Miss  Minchin.  It  almost 
seemed  for  the  moment  to  her  narrow,  unimag- 
inative mind  that  there  must  be  some  real  power 
behind  this  candid  daring. 

"  What ! "  she  exclaimed,  "  found  out  what  ?  " 

"  That  I  really  was  a  princess,"  said  Sara,  "  and 
could  do  anything — anything  I  liked." 

"  Go  to  your  room,"  cried  Miss  Minchin  breath- 


32  Sara   Crewe;  or 

lessly,  "  this  instant.  Leave  the  school  -  room. 
Attend  to  your  lessons,  young  ladies." 

Sara  made  a  little  bow. 

"  Excuse  me  for  laughing,  if  it  was  impolite," 
she  said,  and  walked  out  of  the  room,  leaving 
Miss  Minchin  in  a  rage  and  the  girls  whispering 
over  their  books. 

"  I  shouldn't  be  at  all  surprised  if  she  did  turn 
out  to  be  something,"  said  one  of  them.  "  Sup- 
pose she  should ! " 

That  very  afternoon  Sara  had  an  opportunity 
of  proving  to  herself  whether  she  was  really  a 
princess  or  not.  It  was  a  dreadful  afternoon. 
For  several  days  it  had  rained  continuously,  the 
streets  were  chilly  and  sloppy ;  there  was  mud 
everywhere  —  sticky  London  mud  —  and  over 
everything  a  pall  of  fog  and  drizzle.  Of  course 
there  were  several  long  and  tiresome  errands  to 
be  done, — there  always  were  on  days  like  this, — 
and  Sara  was  sent  out  again  and  again,  until  her 
shabby  clothes  were  damp  through.  The  absurd 
old  feathers  on  her  forlorn  hat  were  more  drag- 
gled and  absurd  than  ever,  and  her  down-trodden 
shoes  were  so  wet  they  could  not  hold  any  more 
water.  Added  to  this,  she  had  been  deprived  of 
her  dinner,  because  Miss  Minchin  wished  to  pun- 
ish her.  She  was  very  hungry.  She  was  so  cold 
and  hungry  and  tired  that  her  little  ^ce  had  a 


What  Happened  at  Miss  Mine  kin  s     33 

pinched  look,  and  now  and  then  some  kind-hearted 
person  passing  her  in  the  crowded  street  glanced 
at  her  with  sympathy.  But  she  did  not  know 
that.  She  hurried  on,  trying  to  comfort  herself 
in  that  queer  way  of  hers  by  pretending  and 
"  supposing," — but  really  this  time  it  was  harder 
than  she  had  ever  found  it,  and  once  or  twice  she 
thought  it  almost  made  her  more  cold  and  hungry 
instead  of  less  so.  But  she  persevered  obstinately. 
"  Suppose  I  had  dry  clothes  on,"  she  thought. 
"Suppose  I  had  good  shoes  and  a  long,  thick 
coat  and  merino  stockings  and  a  whole  umbrella. 
And  suppose — suppose,  just  when  I  was  near  a 
baker's  where  they  sold  hot  buns,  I  should  find 
sixpence — which  belonged  to  nobody.  Suppose, 
if  I  did,  I  should  go  into  the  shop  and  buy  six  of 
the  hottest  buns,  and  should  eat  them  all  withouf 
stopping." 

Some  very  odd  things  happen  in  this  world 
sometimes.  It  certainly  was  an  odd  thing  which 
happened  to  Sara.  She  had  to  cross  the  street 
just  as  she  was  saying  this  to  herself — the  mud 
was  dreadful  —  she  almost  had  to  wade.  She 
picked  her  way  as  carefully  as  she  could,  but  she 
could  not  save  herself  much,  only,  in  picking  her 
way  she  had  to  look  down  at  her  feet  and  the 
mud,  and  in  looking  down — just  as  she  reached 
the  pavement — she  saw  something  shining  in  the 
gutter.  A  piece  of  silver — a  tiny  piece  trodden 
3 


34  Sara  Crewe;  or 

upon  by  many  feet,  but  still  with  spirit  enough  to 
shine  a  little.  Not  quite  a  sixpence,  but  the  next 
thing  to  it — a  four-penny  piece  !  In  one  second  it 
was  in  her  cold,  little  red  and  blue  hand. 

"  Oh  !  "  she  gasped.     "  It  is  true  ! " 

And  then,  if  you  will  believe  me,  she  looked 
straight  before  her  at  the  shop  directly  facing 
her.  And  it  was  a  baker's,  and  a  cheerful,  stout, 
motherly  woman,  with  rosy  cheeks,  was  just  put- 
ting into  the  window  a  tray  of  delicious  hot  buns, — 
large,  plump,  shiny  buns,  with  currants  in  them. 

It  almost  made  Sara  feel  faint  for  a  few  seconds 
— the  shock  and  the  sight  of  the  buns  and  the  de- 
lightful odors  of  warm  bread  floating  up  through 
the  baker's  cellar-window. 

She  knew  that  she  need  not  hesitate  to  use  the 
little  piece  of  money.  It  had  evidently  been  ly- 
ing in  the  mud  for  some  time,  and  its  owner  was 
completely  lost  in  the  streams  of  passing  people 
who  crowded  and  jostled  each  other  all  through 
the  day. 

"  But  I'll  go  and  ask  the  baker's  woman  if  she 
has  lost  a  piece  of  money,"  she  said  to  herself, 
rather  faintly. 

So  she  crossed  the  pavement  and  put  her  wet 
foot  on  the  step  of  the  shop ;  and  as  she  did  so 
she  saw  something  which  made  her  stop. 

It  was  a  little  figure  more  forlorn  than  her  own 
— a  little  figure  which  was  not  much  more  than  a 


What  Happened  at  Miss  Minchiris     35 

bundle  of  rags,  from  which  small,  bare,  red  and 
muddy  feet  peeped  out — only  because  the  rags 
with  which  the  wearer  was  trying  to  cover  them 
were  not  long  enough.  Above  the  rags  appeared 
a  shock  head  of  tangled  hair  and  a  dirty  face, 
with  big,  hollow,  hungry  eyes. 

Sara  knew  they  were  hungry  eyes  the  moment 
she  saw  them,  and  she  felt  a  sudden  sympathy. 

"  This,"  she  said  to  herself,  with  a  little  sigh, 
"is  one  of  the  Populace — and  she  is  hungrier 
than  I  am." 

The  child — this  "  one  of  the  Populace  " — stared 
up  at  Sara,  and  shuffled  herself  aside  a  little,  so 
as  to  give  her  more  room.  She  was  used  to  be- 
ing made  to  give  room  to  everybody.  She  knew 
that  if  a  policeman  chanced  to  see  her,  he  would 
tell  her  to  "  move  on." 

Sara  clutched  her  little  four-penny  piece,  and 
hesitated  a  few  seconds.     Then  she  spoke  to  her. 

"  Are  you  hungry  ?  "  she  asked. 

The  child  shuffled  herself  and  her  rags  a  little 
more. 

"  Ain't  I  jist ! "  she  said,  in  a  hoarse  voice. 
"  Jist  ain't  I !  "  . 

"  Haven't  you  had  any  dinner  ?  "  said  Sara. 

"  No  dinner,"  more  hoarsely  still  and  with  more 
shuffling,  "  nor  yet  no  bre'fast — nor  yet  no  supper 
— nor  nothin'." 

"  Since  when  ?  "  asked  Sara. 


35  Sara  Crewe  /  or 

"  Dun'no.     Never  got  nothin'  to-day— nowhere 
I've  axed  and  axed." 

Just  to  look  at  her  made  Sara  more  hungry  and 
faint.  But  those  queer  little  thoughts  were  at 
work  in  her  brain,  and  she  was  talking  to  herself 
though  she  was  sick  at  heart. 

"  If  I'm  a  princess,"  she  was  saying — "if  I'm  a 
princess — !  When  they  were  poor  and  driven 
from  their  thrones — they  always  shared — with  the 
Populace — if  they  met  one  poorer  and  hungrier. 
They  always  shared.  Buns  are  a  penny  each. 
If  it  had  been  sixpence !  I  could  have  eaten  six. 
It  won't  be  enough  for  either  of  us — but  it  will 
be  better  than  nothing." 

"  Wait  a  minute,"  she  said  to  the  beggar-child. 
She  went  into  the  shop.  It  was  warm  and  smelled 
delightfully.  The  woman  was  just  going  to  put 
more  hot  buns  in  the  window. 

"  If  you  please,"  said  Sara,  "  have  you  lost  four- 
pence — a  silver  fourpence  ?  "  And  she  held  the 
forlorn  little  piece  of  money  out  to  her. 

The  woman  looked  at  it  and  at  her — at  her  in- 
tense little  face  and  draggled,  once-fine  clothes. 

"  Bless  us — no,"  she  answered.  "  Did  you  find 
it?" 

"  In  the  gutter,"  said  Sara. 

"  Keep  it,  then,"  said  the  woman.  "  It  may 
have  been  there  a  week,  and  goodness  knows  who 
lost  it.     You  could  never  find  out." 


What  Happened  at  Miss  Mine  kin  s     2>7 

"  I  know  that,"  said  Sara,  "  but  I  thought  'd  ask 
you." 

"  Not  many  would,"  said  the  woman,  looking 
puzzled  and  interested  and  good-natured  all  at 
once.  "Do  you  want  to  buy  something?"  she 
added,  as  she  saw  Sara  glance  toward  the  buns. 

"  Four  buns,  if  you  please,"  said  Sara ;  "  those 
at  a  penny  each." 

The  woman  went  to  the  window  and  put  some 
in  a  paper  bag.     Sara  noticed  that  she  put  in  six. 

"  I  said  four,  if  you  please,"  she  explained.  "  I 
have  only  the  fourpence." 

"  I'll  throw  in  two  for  make-weight,"  said  the 
woman,  with  her  good-natured  look.  "  I  dare  say 
you  can  eat  them  some  time.  Aren't  you  hun- 
gry?" 

A  mist  rose  before  Sara's  eyes. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered.  "  I  am  very  hungry,  and 
I  am  much  obliged  to  you  for  your  kindness,  and," 
she  was  going  to  add,  "there  is  a  child  outside 
who  is  hungrier  than  I  am."  But  just  at  that  mo- 
ment two  or  three  customers  came  in  at  once  and 
each  one  seemed  in  a  hurry,  so  she  could  only 
thank  the  woman  again  and  go  out. 

The  child  was  still  huddled  up  on  the  corner  of 
the  steps.  She  looked  frightful  in  her  wet  and 
dirty  rags.  She  was  staring  with  a  stupid  look 
of  suffering  straight  before  her,  and  Sara  saw  her 
suddemy  draw  the  back  of  her  roughened,  black 


38  Sara  Crewe;  or 

hand  across  her  eyes  to  rub  away  the  tears  which 
seemed  to  have  surprised  her  by  forcing  their 
way  from  under  her  lids.  She  was  muttering  to 
herself. 

Sara  opened  the  paper  bag  and  took  out  one  of 
the  hot  buns,  which  had  already  warmed  her  cold 
hands  a  little. 

"  See,"  she  said,  putting  the  bun  on  the  ragged 
lap,  "  that  is  nice  and  hot.  Eat  it,  and  you  will 
not  be  so  hungry." 

The  child  started  and  stared  up  at  her;  then 
she  snatched  up  the  bun  and  began  to  cram  it 
into  her  mouth  with  great  wolfish  bites. 

"  Oh,  my !  Oh,  my ! "  Sara  heard  her  say 
hoarsely,  in  wild  delight. 

"  Oh,  my  !  " 

Sara  took  out  three  more  buns  and  put  them 
down. 

"  She  is  hungrier  than  I  am,"  she  said  to  her- 
seif.  "  She's  starving."  But  her  hand  trembled 
when  she  put  down  the  fourth  bun.  "  I'm  not 
sta>  ":ng."  she  said — and  she  put  down  the  fifth. 

fhe  uttie  starving  London  savage  was  still 
snatching  anc.  devouring  when  she  turned  away. 
She  was  too  ravenous  to  give  any  thanks,  even  if 
she  had  been  taught  politeness — which  she  had 
not.     She  was  only  a  poor  little  wild  animal. 

"  Good-bve,"  said  Sara. 

When  she  reached  the  other  side  o(  the  street 


-tftfff  IT."    -uJ  b  aA,  "AND  YOU    ViLL  NOT  BE  SO  HUNGRY- 


What  Happened  at  Miss  Mine  kins     41 

she  looked  back.  The  child  had  a  bun  in  both 
hands,  and  had  stopped  in  the  middle  of  a  bite  to 
watch  her.  Sara  gave  her  a  little  nod,  and  the 
child,  after  another  stare, — a  curious,  longing 
stare, — jerked  her  shaggy  head  in  response,  and 
until  Sara  was  out  of  sight  she  did  not  take 
another  bite  or  even  finish  the  one  she  had  begun. 

At  that  moment  the  baker-woman  glanced  out 
of  her  shop-window. 

"  Well,  I  never  !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  If  that 
young  'un  hasn't  given  her  buns  to  a  beggar-child ! 
It  wasn't  because  she  didn't  want  them,  either- 
well,  well,  she  looked  hungry  enough.  I'd  give 
something  to  know  what  she  did  it  for."  She 
stood  behind  her  window  for  a  few  moments  and 
pondered.  Then  her  curiosity  got  the  better  of 
her.  She  went  to  the  door  and  spoke  to  the  beg- 
gar-child. 

"  Who  gave  you  those  buns  ?  "  she  asked  her. 

The  child  nodded  her  head  toward  Sara's  van- 
ishing figure. 

"  What  did  she  say?"  inquired  the  woman. 

"Axed  me  if  I  was  'ungry,"  replied  the  hoarse 
voice. 

"  What  did  you  say  ?  " 

"  Said  I  was  jist !  " 

"And  then  she  came  in  and  got  buns  and  came 
out  and  gave  them  to  you,  did  she?" 

The  child  nodded. 


42  Sara  Crewe;  or 

"jBjw  many?" 

"  Five. 

The  womar  thought  it  over.  "  Left  just  one 
for  herself,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice.  "  And  she 
could  have  eaten  the  whole  six — I  saw  it  in  her 
eyes." 

She  looked  after  the  little,  draggled,  far-away 
figure,  and  felt  more  disturbed  in  her  usually 
comfortable  mind  than  she  had  felt  for  many  a 
day. 

"  I  wish  she  hadn't  gone  so  quick,"  she  said. 
"  I'm  blest  if  she  shouldn't  have  had  a  dozen." 

Then  she  turned  to  the  child. 

"Are  you  hungry,  yet?"  she  asked. 

"  I'm  alius  'ungry,"  was  the  answer  ;  "but  'tain't 
so  bad  as  it  was." 

"  Come  in  here,"  said  the  woman,  and  she  held 
open  the  shop-door. 

The  child  got  up  and  shuffled  in.  To  be  invited 
into  a  warm  place  full  of  bread  seemed  an  incred- 
ible thing.  She  did  not  know  what  was  going  to 
happen ;  she  did  not  care,  even. 

"  Get  yourself  warm,"  said  the  woman,  pointing 
to  a  fire  in  a  tiny  back  room.  "  And,  look  here, — 
when  you're  hard  up  for  a  bite  of  bread,  you  can 
come  here  and  ask  for  it.  I'm  blest  if  I  won't  give 
it  to  you  for  that  young  un's  sake." 

Sara  found  some  comfort  in  her  remaining  bun. 


What  Happened  at  Miss  Mine  kins     43 

It  was  hot ;  and  it  was  a  great  deal  better  than 
nothing-.  She  broke  off  small  pieces  and  ate  them 
slowly  to  make  it  last  longer. 

"  Suppose  it  was  a  magic  bun,"  she  said,  "  and 
a  bite  was  as  much  as  a  whole  dinner.  I  should 
be  over-eating  myself  if  I  went  on  like  this." 

It  was  dark  when  she  reached  the  square  in 
which  Miss  Minchin's  Select  Seminary  was  sit- 
uated ;  the  lamps  were  lighted,  and  in  most  of  the 
windows  gleams  of  light  were  to  be  seen.  It 
always  interested  Sara  to  catch  glimpses  of  the 
rooms  before  the  shutters  were  closed.  She  liked 
to  imagine  things  about  people  who  sat  before  the 
fires  in  the  houses,  or  who  bent  over  books  at  the 
tables.  There  was,  for  instance,  the  Large  Family 
opposite.  She  called  these  people  the  Large 
Family — not  because  they  were  large,  for  indeed 
most  of  them  were  little, — but  because  there  were 
so  many  of  them.  There  were  eight  children  in 
the  Large  Family,  and  a  stout,  rosy  mother,  and 
a  stout,  rosy  father,  and  a  stout,  rosy  grand- 
mamma, and  any  number  of  servants.  The  eight 
children  were  always  either  being  taken  out  to 
walk,  or  to  ride  in  perambulators,  by  comfortable 
nurses ;  or  they  were  going  to  drive  with  their 
mamma ;  or  they  were  flying  to  the  door  in  the 
evening  to  kiss  their  papa  and  dance  around  hirr 
and  drag  off  his  overcoat  and  look  for  packages 
in  the  pockets  of  it ;  or  they  were  crowding  about 


44  Sara  Crewe;  or 

the 'nursery  windows  and  looking  out  and  push, 
ing  each  other  and  laughing, — in  fact  they  were 
always  doing  something  which  seemed  enjoyable 
and  suited  to  the  tastes  of  a  large  family.  Sara 
was  quite  attached  to  them,  and  had  given  them 
all  names  out  of  books.  She  called  them  the 
Montmorencys,  when  she  did  not  call  them  the 
Large  Family.  The  fat,  fair  baby  with  the  lace 
cap  was  Ethelberta  Beauchamp  Montmorency ; 
the  next  baby  was  Violet  Cholmondely  Mont- 
morency ;  the  little  boy  who  could  just  stagger, 
and  who  had  such  round  legs,  was  Sydney  Cecil 
Vivian  Montmorency ;  and  then  came  Lilian 
Evangeline,  Guy  Clarence,  Maud  Marian,  Rosa- 
lind Gladys,  Veronica  Eustacia,  and  Claude 
Harold  Hector. 

Next  door  to  the  Large  Family  lived  the  Maid- 
en Lady,  who  had  a  companion,  and  two  par- 
rots, and  a  King  Charles  spaniel ;  but  Sara  was 
not  so  very  fond  of  her,  because  she  did  nothing 
in  particular  but  talk  to  the  parrots  and  drive  out 
with  the  spaniel.  The  most  interesting  person  of 
all  lived  next  door  to  Miss  Minchin  herself.  Sara 
called  him  the  Indian  Gentleman.  He  was  an 
elderly  gentleman  who  was  said  to  have  lived  in 
the  East  Indies,  and  to  be  immensely  rich  and  to 
have  something  the  matter  with  his  liver, — in  fact, 
it  had  been  rumored  that  he  had  no  liver  at  all, 
and  was  much  inconvenienced  by  the  fact.     At 


What  Happened  at  Miss  Mine  kins     45 

any  rate,  he  was  very  yellow  and  he  did  not  look 
happy ;  and  when  he  went  out  to  his  carriage,  he 
was  almost  always  wrapped  up  in  shawls  and 
overcoats,  as  if  he  were  cold.  He  had  a  native 
servant  who  looked  even  colder  than  himself,  and 
he  had  a  monkey  who  looked  colder  than  the 
native  servant.  Sara  had  seen  the  monkey  sitting 
on  a  table,  in  the  sun,  in  the  parlor  window,  and 
'he  always  wore  such  a  mournful  expression  that 
she  sympathized  with  him  deeply. 

"  I  dare  say,"  she  used  sometimes  to  remark  to 
herself,  "  he  is  thinking  all  the  time  of  cocoanut 
trees  and  of  swinging  by  his  tail  under  a  tropical 
sun.  He  might  have  had  a  family  dependent  on 
him  too,  poor  thing  !  " 

The  native  servant,  whom  she  called  the  Lascar, 
looked  mournful  too,  but  he  was  evidently  very 
faithful  to  his  master. 

"  Perhaps  he  saved  his  master's  life  in  the  Sepoy 
rebellion,"  she  thought.  "  They  look  as  if  they 
might  have  had  all  sorts  of  adventures.  I  wish  I 
could  speak  to  the  Lascar.  I  remember  a  little 
Hindustani." 

And  one  day  she  actually  did  speak  to  him, 
and  his  start  at  the  sound  of  his  own  language  ex- 
pressed a  great  deal  of  surprise  and  delight.  He 
was  waiting  for  his  master  to  come  out  to  the  car- 
riage, and  Sara,  who  was  going  on  an  errand  as 
usual,  stopped  and  spoke  a  few  words.     She  had  a 


46  Sara  Crewe;  or 

special  gift  for  languages  and  had  remembered 
enough  Hindustani  to  make  herself  understood 
by  him.  When  his  master  came  out,  the  Lascar 
spoke  to  him  quickly,  and  the  Indian  Gentleman 
turned  and  looked  at  her  curiously.  And  after- 
ward the  Lascar  always  greeted  her  with  salaams 
of  the  most  profound  description.  And  occasion- 
ally they  exchanged  a  few  words.  She  learned 
that  it  was  true  that  the  Sahib  was  very  rich — 
that  he  was  ill — and  also  that  he  had  no  wife  nor 
children,  and  that  England  did  not  agree  with  the 
monkey. 

"  He  must  be  as  lonely  as  I  am,"  thought  Sara. 
"  Being  rich  does  not  seem  to  make  him  happy." 

That  evening,  as  she  passed  the  windows,  the 
Lascar  was  closing  the  shutters,  and  she  caught  a 
glimpse  of  the  room  inside.  There  was  a  bright 
fire  glowing  in  the  grate,  and  the  Indian  Gentle- 
man was  sitting  before  it,  in  a  luxurious  chair. 
The  room  was  richly  furnished,  and  looked  de- 
lightfully comfortable,  but  the  Indian  Gentle- 
man sat  with  his  head  resting  on  his  hand,  and 
looked  as  lonely  and  unhappy  as  ever. 

"  Poor  man !  "  said  Sara ;  "  I  wonder  what  you 
are  '  supposing  '  ?  " 

When  she  went  into  the  house  she  met  Miss 
Minchin  in  the  hall. 

"  Where  have  you  wasted  your  time  ? "  said 
Miss  Minchin.     "  You  have  been  out  for  hours !  " 


J0T0J& 


HE  WAS  WAITING  FOR  HIS  MASTER  TO  COME  OUT  TO  THE  CAHWACR  ANI> 
SARA  STOPPED  AND  SPOKE  A  FEW  WORDS  TO  HIM." 


What  Happened  at  Miss  Mine  kins     49 

"  It  was  so  wet  and  muddy,"  Sara  answered. 
"  It  was  hard  to  walk,  because  my  shoes  were  so 
bad  and  slipped  about  so." 

"  Make  no  excuses,"  said  Miss  Minchin,  "  and 
tell  no  falsehoods." 

Sara  went  downstairs  to  the  kitchen. 

"  Why  didn't  you  stay  all  night  ? "  said  the 
cook. 

"  Here  are  the  things,"  said  Sara,  and  laid  her 
purchases  on  the  table. 

The  cook  looked  over  them,  grumbling.  She 
was  in  a  very  bad  temper  indeed. 

"May  I  have  something  to  eat?"  Sara  asked 
rather  faintly. 

"  Tea's  over  and  done  with,"  was  the  answer. 
"  Did  you  expect  me  to  keep  it  hot  for  you  ?  " 

Sara  was  silent  a  second. 

"  I  had  no  dinner,"  she  said,  and  her  voice  was 
quite  low.  She  made  it  low,  because  she  was 
afraid  it  would  tremble. 

"  There's  some  bread  in  the  pantry,"  said  the 
cook.     "  That's  all  you'll  get  at  this  time  of  day." 

Sara  went  and  found  the  bread.  It  was  old  and 
hard  and  dry.  The  cook  was  in  too  bad  a  humor 
to  give  her  anything  to  eat  with  it.  She  had  just 
been  scolded  by  Miss  Minchin,  and  it  Was  always 
safe  and  easy  to  vent  her  own  spite  on  Sara. 

Really  it  was  hard  for  the  child  to  climb  the 
three  long  flights  of  stairs  leading  to  her  garret, 
3 


50  Sara   Crewe  /  or 

She  often  found  them  long  and  steep  when  she 
was  tired,  but  to-night  it  seemed  as  if  she  would 
never  reach  the  top.  Several  times  a  lump  rose 
in  her  throat  and  she  was  obliged  to  stop  to  rest. 

"  I  can't  pretend  anything  more  to-night,"  she 
said  wearily  to  herself.  "I'm  sure  I  can't.  I'll 
eat  my  bread  and  drink  some  water  and  then  go 
to  sleep,  and  perhaps  a  dream  will  come  and  pre- 
tend for  mc.     I  wonder  what  dreams  are." 

Yes,  when  she  reached  the  top  landing  there 
were  tears  in  her  eyes,  and  she  did  not  feel  like  a 
princess — only  like  a  tired,  hungry,  lonely,  lonely 
child. 

"  If  my  papa  had  lived,"  she  said,  "  they  would 
not  have  treated  me  like  this.  If  my  papa  had 
lived,  he  would  have  taken  care  of  me." 

Then  she  turned  the  handle  and  opened  the 
garret-door. 

Can  you  imagine  it — can  you  believe  it?  I  find 
it  hard  to  believe  it  myself.  And  Sara  found  it 
impossible  ;  for  the  first  few  moments  she  thought 
something  strange  had  happened  to  her  eyes — to 
her  mind — that  the  dream  had  come  before  she 
had  had  time  to  fall  asleep. 

"  Oh  !  "  she  exclaimed  breathlessly.  "  Oh  !  It 
isn't  true!  I  know,  I  know  it  isn't  true!"  And 
she  slipped  into  the  room  and  closed  the  door  and 
locked  it,  and  stood  with  her  back  against  it,  star- 
ing straight  before  her. 


What  Happened  at  Miss  Mine  kins     51 

Do  you  wonder?  In  the  grate,  which  had  been 
empty  and  rusty  and  cold  when  she  left  it,  but 
which  now  was  blackened  and  polished  up  quite 
respectably,  there  was  a  glowing,  blazing  fire. 
On  the  hob  was  a  little  brass  kettle,  hissing  and 
boiling  ;  spread  upon  the  floor  was  a  warm,  thick 
rug ;  before  the  fire  was  a  folding-chair,  unfolded 
and  with  cushions  on  it ;  by  the  chair  was  a  small 
folding-table,  unfolded,  covered  with  a  white 
cloth,  and  upon  it  were  spread  small  covered 
dishes,  a  cup  and  saucer,  and  a  tea-pot ;  on  the 
bed  were  new,  warm  coverings,  a  curious  wadded 
silk  robe,  and  some  books.  The  little,  cold,  miser- 
able room  seemed  changed  into  Fairyland.  It 
was  actually  warm  and  glowing. 

"  It  is  bewitched  !  "  said  Sara.  "  Or  7"  am  be- 
witched. I  only  think  I  see  it  all ;  but  if  I  can 
only  keep  on  thinking  it,  I  don't  care — I  don't 
care — if  I  can  only  keep  it  up  !  " 

She  was  afraid  to  move,  for  fear  it  would  melt 
away.  She  stood  with  her  back  against  the  door 
and  looked  and  looked.  But  soon  she  began  to 
feel  warm,  and  then  she  moved  forward. 

"  A  fire  that  I  only  thought  I  saw  surely  wouldn't 
feel  warm,"  she  said.     "  It  feels  real — real." 

She  went  to  it  and  knelt  before  it.  She  touched 
the  chair,  the  table ;  she  lifted  the  cover  of  one  of 
the  dishes.  There  was  something  hot  and  savory 
in  it — something  delicious.     The  tea-pot  had  tea 


5  2  Sara  Crewe  /  or 

in  it,  ready  for  the  boiling  water  from  the  little 
kettle  ;  one  plate  had  toast  on  it,  another,  muf- 
fins. 

"  It  is  real,"  said  Sara.  "  The  fire  is  real  enough 
to  warm  me;  I  can  sit  in  the  chair ;  the  things  are 
real  enough  to  eat." 

It  was  like  a  fairy  story  come  true — it  was 
heavenly.  She  went  to  the  bed  and  touched  the 
blankets  and  the  wrap.  They  were  real  too.  She 
opened  one  book,  and  on  the  title-page  was  writ- 
ten in  a  strange  hand,  "  The  little  girl  in  the 
attic." 

Suddenly — was  it  a  strange  thing  for  her  to  do  ? 
— Sara  put  her  face  down  on  the  queer,  foreign 
looking  quilted  robe  and  burst  into  tears. 

"I  don't  know  who  it  is,"  she  said,  "but  some- 
body cares  about  me  a  little — somebody  is  my 
friend." 

Somehow  that  thought  warmed  her  more  than 
the  fire.  She  had  never  had  a  friend  since  those 
happy,  luxurious  days  when  she  had  had  every- 
thing ;  and  those  days  had  seemed  such  a  long 
way  off — so  far  away  as  to  be  only  like  dreams — 
during  these  last  years  at  Miss  Minchin's. 

She  really  cried  more  at  this  strange  thought  of 
having  a  friend — even  though  an  unknown  one — 
than  she  had  cried  over  many  of  her  worst  troub- 
les. 

But  these  tears  seemed  different  from  the  others, 


What  Happened  at  Miss  Mine  kin  s     53 

for  when  she  had  wiped  them  away  they  did  not 
seem  to  leave  her  eyes  and  her  heart  hot  and 
smarting. 

And  then  imagine,  if  you  can,  what  the  rest  of 
the  evening  was  like.  The  delicious  comfort  of 
taking  off  the  damp  clothes  and  putting  on  the 
soft,  warm,  quilted  robe  before  the  glowing  fire — 
of  slipping  her  cold  feet  into  the  luscious  littxe 
wool-lined  slippers  she  found  near  her  chair.  And 
then  the  hot  tea  and  savory  dishes,  the  cushioned 
chair  and  the  books ! 

It  was  just  like  Sara,  that,  once  having  found  the 
things  real,  she  should  give  herself  up  to  the  en- 
joyment of  them  to  the  very  upmost.  She  had 
lived  such  a  life  of  imagining,  and  had  found  her 
pleasure  so  long  in  improbabilities,  that  she  was 
quite  equal  to  accepting  any  wonderful  thing 
that  happened.  After  she  was  quite  warm  and 
had  eaten  her  supper  and  enjoyed  herself  for  an 
hour  or  so,  it  had  almost  ceased  to  be  surprising 
to  her  that  such  magical  surroundings  should  be 
hers.  As  to  finding  out  who  had  done  all  this, 
she  knew  that  it  was  out  of  the  question.  She 
did  not  know  a  human  soul  by  whom  it  could 
seem  in  the  least  degree  probable  that  it  could 
have  been  done. 

"  There  is  nobody,"  she  said  to  herself,  "  no- 
body." She  discussed  the  matter  with  Emily,  it 
is  true,  but  more  because  it  was  delightful  to  talk 


54  Sara   Crewe  /  or 

about  it  than  with  a  view  to  making  any  discov 
eries. 

"  But  we  have  a  friend,  Emily,"  she  said  ;  "  we 
have  a  friend." 

Sara  could  not  even  imagine  a  being  charming 
enough  to  fill  her  grand  ideal  of  her  mysterious 
benefactor.  If  she  tried  to  make  in  her  mind  a 
picture  of  him  or  her,  it  ended  by  being  some- 
thing glittering  and  strange — not  at  all  like  a 
real  person,  but  bearing  resemblance  to  a  sort  of 
Eastern  magician,  with  long  robes  and  a  wand. 
And  when  she  fell  asleep,  beneath  the  soft  white 
blanket,  she  dreamed  all  night  of  this  magnificent 
personage,  and  talked  to  him  in  Hindustani,  and 
made  salaams  to  him. 

Upon  one  thing  she  was  determined.  She 
would  not  speak  to  any  one  of  her  good  fortune 
— it  should  be  her  own  secret ;  in  fact,  she  was 
rather  inclined  to  think  that  if  Miss  Minchin 
knew,  she  would  take  her  treasures  from  her  or 
in  some  way  spoil  her  pleasure.  So,  when  she 
went  down  the  next  morning,  she  shut  her  door 
very  tight  and  did  her  best  to  look  as  if  nothing 
unusual  had  occurred.  And  yet  this  was  rather 
hard,  because  she  could  not  help  remembering, 
every  now  and  then,  with  a  sort  of  start,  and  her 
heart  would  beat  quickly  every  time  she  repeated 
to  herself,  "  I  have  a  friend  ! " 

It  was  a  friend  who  evidently  meant  to  continue 


What  Happened  at  Miss  Minchiris     55 

to  be  kind,  for  when  she  weni  to  her  garret  the 
next  night — and  she  opened  the  door,  it  must  be 
confessed,  with  rather  an  excited  feeling — she 
found  that  the  same  hands  had  been  again  at 
work,  and  had  done  even  more  than  before.  The 
fire  and  the  supper  were  again  there,  and  beside 
them  a  number  of  other  things  which  so  altered 
the  look  of  the  garret  that  Sara  quite  lost  her 
breath.  A  piece  of  bright,  strange,  heavy  cloth 
covered  the  battered  mantel,  and  on  it  some  or- 
naments had  been  placed.  All  the  bare,  ugly 
things  which  could  be  covered  with  draperies 
had  been  concealed  and  made  to  look  quite 
pretty.  Some  odd  materials  in  rich  colors  had 
been  fastened  against  the  walls  with  sharp,  fine 
tacks — so  sharp  that  they  could  be  pressed  into 
the  wood  without  hammering.  Some  brilliant 
fans  were  pinned  up,  and  there  were  several  large 
cushions.  A  long,  old  wooden  box  was  covered 
with  a  rug,  and  some  cushions  lay  on  it,  so  that  it 
wore  quite  the  air  of  a  sofa. 

Sara  simply  sat  down,  and  looked,  and  looked 
again. 

"  It  is  exactly  like  something  fairy  come  true," 
she  said  ;  "  there  isn't  the  least  difference.  I  feel 
as  if  I  might  wish  for  anything — diamonds  and 
bags  of  gold — and  they  would  appear !  That 
couldn't  be  any  stranger  than  this.  Is  this  my 
garret  ?      Am    I   the   same    cold,   ragged,    damp 


56  Sara  Crewe  •  or 

Sara  ?  And  to  think  how  I  used  to  pretend,  and 
pretend,  and  wish  there  were  fairies !  The  one 
thing  I  always  wanted  was  to  see  a  fairy  story 
come  true.  I  am  living  in  a  fairy  story !  .1  feel 
as  if  I  might  be  a  fairy  myself,  and  be  able  to  turn 
things  into  anything  else !  " 

It  was  like  a  fairy  story,  and,  what  was  best  of 
all,  it  continued.  Almost  every  day  something 
new  was  done  to  the  garret.  Some  new  comfort 
or  ornament  appeared  in  it  when  Sara  opened  her 
door  at  night,  until  actually,  in  a  short  time,  it 
was  a  bright  little  room,  full  of  all  sorts  of  odd 
and  luxurious  things.  And  the  magician  had 
taken  care  that  the  child  should  not  be  hungry, 
and  that  she  should  have  as  many  books  as  she 
could  read.  When  she  left  the  room  in  the  morn- 
ing, the  remains  of  her  supper  were  on  the  table, 
and  when  she  returned  in  the  evening,  the  magi- 
cian had  removed  them,  and  left  another  nice  little 
meal.  Downstairs  Miss  Minchin  was  as  cruel 
and  insulting  as  ever,  Miss  Amelia  was  as  peevish, 
and  the  servants  were  as  vulgar.  Sara  was  sent 
on  errands,  and  scolded,  and  driven  hither  and 
thither,  but  somehow  it  seemed  as  if  she  could 
bear  it  all.  The  delightful  sense  of  romance  and 
mystery  lifted  her  above  the  cook's  temper  and 
malice.  The  comfort  she  enjoyed  and  could  al- 
ways look  forward  to  was  making  her  stronger. 
If  she  came  home  from  her  errands  wet  and  tired, 


What  Happened  at  Miss  Minchiris     57 

she  knew  she  would  soon  be  warm,  after  she  had 
climbed  the  stairs.  In  a  few  weeks  she  began 
to  look  less  thin.  A  little  color  came  into  her 
cheeks,  and  her  eyes  did  not  seem  much  too  big 
for  her  face. 

It  was  just  when  this  was  beginning  to  be  so 
apparent  that  Miss  Minchin  sometimes  stared  at 
her  questioningly,  that  another  wonderful  thing 
happened.  A  man  came  to  the  door  and  left 
several  parcels.  All  were  addressed  (in  large  let- 
ters) to  "  the  little  girl  in  the  attic."  Sara  herself 
was  sent  to  open  the  door,  and  she  took  them  in. 
She  laid  the  two  largest  parcels  down  on  the  hall- 
table  and  was  looking  at  the  address,  when  Miss 
Minchin  came  down  the  stairs. 

"  Take  the  things  upstairs  to  the  young  lady  to 
whom  they  belong,"  she  said.  "  Don't  stand  there 
staring  at  them." 

"  They  belong  to  me,"  answered  Sara,  quietly. 

"  To  you  ! "  exclaimed  Miss  Minchin.  "  What 
do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  where  they  came  from,"  said 
Sara,  "  but  they're  addressed  to  me." 

Miss  Minchin  came  to  her  side  and  looked  at 
them  with  an  excited  expression. 

"  What  is  in  them  ?  "  she  demanded. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Sara. 

"  Open  them  !  "  she  demanded,  still  more  ex- 
citedly. 


5  8  Sara   Crewe  /  or 

Sara  did  as  she  was  told.  They  contained  pretty 
and  comfortable  clothing, — clothing  of  different 
kinds ;  shoes  and  stockings  and  gloves,  a  warm 
coat,  and  even  an  umbrella.  On  the  pocket  of 
the  coat  was  pinned  a  paper  on  which  was  writ- 
ten, "  To  be  worn  every  day — will  be  replaced  by 
others  when  necessary." 

Miss  Minchin  was  quite  agitated.  This  was  an 
incident  which  suggested  strange  things  to  her 
sordid  mind.  Could  it  be  that  she  had  made  a 
mistake  after  all,  and  that  the  child  so  neglected 
and  so  unkindly  treated  by  her  had  some  power- 
ful friend  in  the  background  ?  It  would  not  be 
very  pleasant  if  there  should  be  such  a  friend, 
and  he  or  she  should  earn  all  the  truth  about  the 
thin,  shabby  clothes,  the  scant  food,  the  hard 
work.  She  felt  queer  indeed  and  uncertain,  and 
she  gave  a  side-glance  at  Sara. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  in  a  voice  such  as  she  had 
never  used  since  the  day  the  child  lost  her  father 
— "  well,  some  one  is  very  kind  to  you.  As  you 
have  the  things  and  are  to  have  new  ones  when 
they  are  worn  out,  you  may  as  well  go  and  put 
them  on  and  look  respectable;  and  after  you  are 
dressed,  you  may  come  downstairs  and  learn  your 
lessons  in  the  school-room." 

So  it  happened  that,  about  half  an  hour  after- 
ward, Sara  struck  the  entire  school-room  of  pupils 
dumb  with  amazement,  by  making  her  appearance 


What  Happened  at  Miss  Mine  kins     59 

in  a  costume  such  as  she  had  never  worn  since 
the  change  of  fortune  whereby  she  ceased  to  be 
a  show-pupil  and  a  parlor-boarder.  She  scarcely 
seemed  to  be  the  same  Sara.  She  was  neatly 
dressed  in  a  pretty  gown  of  warm  browns  and 
reds,  and  even  her  stockings  and  slippers  were 
nice  and  dainty. 

"  Perhaps  some  one  has  left  her  a  fortune,"  one 
of  the  girls  whispered.  "  I  always  thought  some- 
thing would  happen  to  her,  she  is  so  queer." 

That  night  when  Sara  went  to  her  room  she 
carried  out  a  plan  she  had  been  devising  for  some 
time.  She  wrote  a  note  to  her  unknown  friend. 
It  ran  as  follows  : 

"  I  hope  you  will  not  think  it  is  not  polite  that  I  should  write 
this  note  to  you  when  you  wish  to  keep  yourself  a  secret,  but  I 
do  not  mean  to  be  impolite,  or  to  try  to  find  out  at  all,  only  I 
want  to  thank  you  for  being  so  kind  to  me — so  beautiful  kind, 
and  making  everything  like  a  fairy  story.  I  am  so  grateful  to 
you  and  I  am  so  happy  !  I  used  to  be  so  lonely  and  cold  and, 
hungry,  and  now,  oh,  just  think  what  you  have  done  for  me ! 
Please  let  me  say  just  these  words.  It  seems  as  if  I  ought  to 
say  them.     Thank  you — thank  you — thank  you  ! 

*'  The  Little  Girl  in  the  Attic" 

The  next  morning  she  left  this  on  the  little  ta- 
ble, and  it  was  taken  away  with  the  other  things ; 
so  she  felt  sure  the  magician  had  received  it, 
and  she  was  happier  for  the  thought. 

A  few  nights  later  a  very  odd  thing  happened. 


6o  Sara  Crewe  '  or 

She  found  something  in  the  room  which  she  cer- 
tainly  would  never  have  expected.  When  she 
came  in  as  usual  she  saw  something  small  and 
dark  in  her  chair, — an  odd,  tiny  figure,  which 
turned  toward  her  a  little,  weird-looking,  wistful 
face. 

"  Why,  it's  the  monkey !  "  she  cried.  "  It  is  the 
Indian  Gentleman's  monkey !  Where  can  he 
have  come  from  ?  " 

It  was  the  monkey,  sitting  up  and  looking  so 
like  a  mite  of  a  child  that  it  really  was  quite  pa- 
thetic ;  and  very  soon  Sara  found  out  how  he  hap- 
pened to  be  in  her  room.  The  skylight  was 
open,  and  it  was  easy  to  guess  that  he  had  crept . 
out  of  his  master's  garret-window,  which  was  only 
a  few  feet  away  and  perfectly  easy  to  get  in  and 
out  of,  even  for  a  climber  less  agile  than  a  mon- 
key. He  had  probably  climbed  to  the  garret  on 
a  tour  of  investigation,  and  getting  out  upon  the 
roof,  and  being  attracted  by  the  light  in  Sara's 
attic,  had  crept  in.  At  all  events  this  seemed 
quite  reasonable,  and  there  he  was ;  and  when 
Sara  went  to  him,  he  actually  put  out  his  queer, 
elfish  little  hands,  caught  her  dress,  and  jumped 
into  her  arms. 

"  Oh,  you  queer,  poor,  ugly,  foreign  little 
thing  !  "  said  Sara,  caressing  him.  "  I  can't  help 
liking  you.  You  look  like  a  sort  of  baby,  but  I 
am  so  glad  you  are   not,  because  your  mother 


•THE  MONKEY  SEEMED  MUCH  INTERESTED  IN  HER  REMARXi." 


What  Happened  at  Miss  Mine  kins     63 

could  not  be  proud  of  you,  and  nobody  would  dare 
to  say  you  were  like  any  of  your  relations.  But  I 
do  like  you ;  you  have  such  a  forlorn  little  look 
in  your  face.  Perhaps  you  are  sorry  you  are  so 
ugly,  and  it's  always  on  your  mind.  I  wonder  if 
you  have  a  mind?" 

The  monkey  sat  and  looked  at  her  while  she 
talked,  and  seemed  much  interested  in  her  re- 
marks, if  one  could  judge  by  his  eyes  and  his  fore- 
head, and  the  way  he  moved  his  head  up  and 
down,  and  held  it  sideways  and  scratched  it  with 
his  little  hand.  He  examined  Sara  quite  seri- 
ously, and  anxiously,  too.  He  felt  the  stuff  of  her 
dress,  touched  her  hands,  climbed  up  and  exam- 
ined her  ears,  and  then  sat  on  her  shoulder  hold- 
ing a  lock  of  her  hair,  looking  mournful  but  not 
at  all  agitated.  Upon  the  whole,  he  seemec 
pleased  with  Sara. 

"  But  I  must  take  you  back,"  she  said  to  him, 
"  though  I'm  sorry  to  have  to  do  it.  Oh,  the 
company  you  would  be  to  a  person  !  " 

She  lifted  him  from  her  shoulder,  set  him  on 
her  knee,  and  gave  him  a  bit  of  cake.  He  sat 
and  nibbled  it,  and  then  put  his  head  on  one  side, 
looked  at  her,  wrinkled  his  forehead,  and  then 
nibbled  again,  in  the  most  companionable  manner. 

"But  you  must  go  home,"  said  Sara  at  last; 
and  she  took  him  in  her  arms  to  carry  him  down- 
stairs.    Evidently  he   did  not  want   to  leave  the 


6\  Sara  Crewe;  or 

V; 

room,  for  as  they  reached  the  door  he  clung  to 
her  neck  and  gave  a  little  scream  of  anger. 

"  You  mustn't  be  an  ungrateful  monkey,"  said 
Sara.  "You  ought  to  be  fondest  of  your  own 
family.     I  am  sure  the  Lascar  is  good  to  you." 

Nobody  saw,  her  on  her  way  out,  and  very  soon 
she  was  standing  on  the  Indian  Gentleman's  front 
steps,  and  the  Lascar  had  opened  the  door  for 
her. 

"  I  found  your  monkey  in  my  room,"  she  said 
in  Hindustani.  "  I  think  he  got  in  through  the 
window." 

The  man  began  a  rapid  outpouring  of  thanks ; 
but,  just  as  he  was  in  the  midst  of  them,  a  fretful, 
hollow  voice  was  heard  through  the  open  door  of 
the  nearest  room.  The  instant  he  heard  it  the 
Lascar  disappeared,  and  left  Sara  still  holding 
the  monkey. 

It  was  not  many  moments,  however,  before  he 
came  back  bringing  a  message.  His  master  had 
told  him  to  bring  Missy  into  the  library.  The 
Sahib  was  very  ill,  but  he  wished  to  see  Missy. 

Sara  thought  this  odd,  but  she  remembered 
reading  stories  of  Indian  gentlemen  who,  having 
no  constitutions,  were  extremely  cross  and  full  of 
whims,  and  who  must  have  their  own  way.  So 
she  followed  the  Lascar. 

When  she  entered  the  room  the  Indian  Gentle- 
man was  lying  on  an  easy  chair,  propped  up  with 


What  Happened  at  Miss  Minchiris     65 

pillows.  He  looked  frightfully  ill.  His  yellow 
face  was  thin,  and  his  eyes  were  hollow.  He  gave 
Sara  a  rather  curious  look — it  was  as  if  she  wak- 
ened in  him  some  anxious  interest. 

"  You  live  next  door  ?  "  he  said. 

"  Yes,"  answered  Sara.  "  I  live  at  Miss  Min- 
chin's." 

"  She  keeps  a  boarding-school  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Sara. 

"  And  you  are  one  of  her  pupils  ?  " 

Sara  hesitated  a  moment. 

"  I  don't  know  exactly  what  I  am,"  she  replied. 

"  Why  not?"  asked  the  Indian  Gentleman. 

The  monkey  gave  a  tiny  squeak,  and  Sara 
stroked  him. 

"  At  first,"  she  said,  "  I  was  a  pupil  and  a  parlor 
boarder ;  but  now " 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  '  at  first'?"  asked  the 
Indian  Gentleman. 

"  When  I  was  first  taken  there  by  my  papa." 

"  Well,  what  has  happened  since  then  ? "  said 
the  invalid,  staring  at  her  and  knitting  his  brows 
with  a  puzzled  expression. 

'  My  papa  died,"  said  Sara.  "  He  lost  all  his 
money,  and  there  was  none  left  for  me — and  there 
was  no  one  to  take  care  of  me  or  pay  Miss  Min- 
chin,  so " 

"  So  you  were  sent  up  into  the  garret  and 
neglected,  and  made  into  a  half -starved  little 
5 


66  Sara   Crewe  /  or 

drudge !  "  put  in  the  Indian  Gentleman.  "  That 
is  about  it,  isn't  it  ?  " 

The  color  deepened  on  Sara's  cheeks. 

"  There  was  no  one  to  take  care  of  me,  and  no 
money,"  she  said.     "  I  belong  to  nobody." 

"  What  did  your  father  mean  by  losing  his 
money?"  said  the  gentleman,  fretfully. 

The  red  in  Sara's  cheeks  grew  deeper,  and  she 
.fixed  her  odd  eyes  on  the  yellow  face. 

"  He  did  not  lose  it  himself,"  she  said.  "  He 
had  a  friend  he  was  fond  of,  and  it  was  his  friend 
who  took  his  money.  I  don't  know  how.  I  don't 
understand.     He  trusted  his  friend  too  much." 

She  saw  the  invalid  start — the  strangest  start — 
as  if  he  had  been  suddenly  frightened.  Then  he 
spoke  nervously  and  excitedly : 

"  That's  an  old  story,"  he  said.  "  It  happens 
every  day ;  but  sometimes  those  who  are  blamed 
— those  who  do  the  wrong — don't  intend  it,  and 
are  not  so  bad.  It  may  happen  through  a  mistake 
— a  miscalculation  ;  they  may  not  be  so  bad." 

"  No,"  said  Sara,  "  but  the  suffering  is  just  as 
bad  for  the  others.     It  killed  my  papa." 

The  Indian  Gentleman  pushed  aside  some  of 
the  gorgeous  wraps  that  covered  him. 

"  Come  a  little  nearer,  and  let  me  look  at  you," 
he  said. 

His  voice  sounded  very  strange ;  it  had  a  more 
nervous  and  excited  tone  than  before.     Sara  had 


What  Happened  at  Miss  Mine  kin  s     67 

an  odd  fancy  that  he  was  half  afraid  to  look  at 
her.  She  came  and  stood  nearer,  the  monkey 
clinging  to  her  and  watching  his  master  anxious- 
ly over  his  shoulder. 

The  Indian  Gentleman's  hollow,  restless  eyes 
fixed  themselves  on  her. 

"  Yes,"  he  said  at  last.  "  Yes ;  I  can  see  it. 
Tell  me  your  father's  name." 

"  His  name  was  Ralph  Crewe,"  said  Sara.  "  Cap- 
tain Crewe.  Perhaps," — a  sudden  thought  flash- 
ing upon  her, — "perhaps  you  may  have  heard  of 
him?     He  died  in  India." 

The  Indian  Gentleman  sank  back  upon  his 
pillows.  He  looked  very  weak,  and  seemed  out 
of  breath. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  I  knew  him.  I  was  his  friend. 
I  meant  no  harm.  If  he  had  only  lived  he  would 
have  known.  It  turned  out  well  after  all.  He 
was  a  fine  young  fellow.  I  was  fond  of  him.  I 
will  make  it  right.     Call — call  the  man." 

Sara  thought  he  was  going  to  die.  But  there 
was  no  need  to  call  the  Lascar.  He  must  have 
been  waiting  at  the  door.  He  was  in  the  room 
and  by  his  master's  side  in  an  instant.  He  seemed 
to  know  what  to  do."  He  lifted  the  drooping  head, 
and  gave  the  invalid  something  in  a  small  glass. 
The  Indian  Gentleman  lay  panting  for  a  few  min- 
utes, and  then  he  spoke  in  an  exhausted  but  eager 
voice,  addressing  the  Lascar  in  Hindustani : 


68  Sara  Crewe;  or 

"  Go  for  Carmichael,"  he  said.  "  Tell  him  to 
come  here  at  once.  Tell  him  I  have  found  the 
child  !  " 

When  Mr.  Carmichael  arrived  (which  occurred 
in  a  very  few  minutes,  for  it  turned  out  that  he 
was  no  other  than  the  father  of  the  Large  Famil)' 
across  the  street),  Sara  went  home,  and  was  al- 
lowed to  take  the  monkey  with  her.  She  cer- 
tainly did  not  sleep  very  much  that  night,  though 
the  monkey  behaved  beautifully,  and  did  not  dis- 
turb her  in  the  least.  It  was  not  the  monkey  chat 
kept  her  awake — it  was  her  thoughts,  and  her 
wonders  as  to  what  the  Indian  Gentleman  had 
meant  when  he  said,  "  Tell  him  I  have  found  the 
child."  "  What  child  ?  "  Sara  kept  asking  herself. 
"  I  was  the  only  child  there ;  but  how  had  he 
found  me,  and  why  did  he  want  to  find  me?  And 
what  is  he  going  to  do,  now  I  am  found  ?  Is  it 
something  about  my  papa?  Do  I  belong  to  some- 
body ?  Is  he  one  of  my  relations  ?  Is  something 
going  to  happen  ?  " 

But  she  found  out  the  very  next  day,  in  the 
morning ;  and  it  seemed  that  she  had  been  living 
in  a  story  even  more  than  she  had  imagined. 
First,  Mr.  Carmichael  came  and  had  an  interview 
with  Miss  Minchin.  And  it  appeared  that  Mr. 
Carmichael,  besides  occupying  the  important 
situation  of  father  to  the  Large  Family  was  a 
lawyer,  and  had  charge  of  the  affairs  of  Mr.  Car 


What  Happened  at  Miss  Minchin  s     69 

risford — which  was  the  real  name  of  the  Indian 
Gentleman — and,  as  Mr.  Carrisford's  lawyer,  Mr. 
Carmichael  had  come  to  explain  something  curi- 
ous to  Miss  Minchin  regarding  Sara.  But,  being 
the  father  of  the  Large  Family,  he  had  a  very 
kind  and  fatherly  feeling  for  children;  and  so, 
after  seeing  Miss  Minchin  alone,  what  did  he  do 
but  go  and  bring  across  the  square  his  rosy, 
motherly,  warm-hearted  wife,  so  that  she  herself 
might  talk  to  the  little  lonely  girl,  and  tell 
her  everything  in  the  best  and  most  motherly 
way. 

And  then  Sara  learned  that  she  was  to  be  a 
poor  little  drudge  and  outcast  no  more,  and  that 
a  great  change  had  come  in  her  fortunes ;  for  all 
the  lost  fortune  had  come  back  to  her,  and  a  great 
deal  had  even  been  added  to  it.  It  was  Mr.  Car- 
risford  who  had  been  her  father's  friend,  and  who 
had  made  the  investments  which  had  caused  him 
the  apparent  loss  of  his  money  ;  but  it  had  so 
happened  that  after  poor  young  Captain  Crewe's 
death  one  of  the  investments  which  had  seemed 
at  the  time  the  very  worst  had  taken  a  sudden 
turn,  and  proved  to  be  such  a  success  that  it  had 
been  a  mine  of  wealth,  and  had  more  than  doubled 
the  Captain's  lost  fortune,  as  well  as  making  a 
fortune  for  Mr.  Carrisford  himself.  But  Mr. 
Carrisford  had  been  very  unhappy.  He  had  truly 
loved  his  poor,  handsome,  generous  young  friend, 


jo  Sara  Crewe;  or 

and  the  knowledge  that  he  had  caused  his  death 
had  weighed  upon  him  always,  and  broken  both 
his  health  and  spirit.  The  worst  of  it  had  been 
that,  when  first  he  thought  himself  and  Captain 
Crewe  ruined,  he  had  lost  courage  and  gone 
away  because  he  was  not  brave  enough  to  face 
the  consequences  of  what  he  had  done,  and  so  he 
had  not  even  known  where  the  young  soldier's 
little  girl  had  been  placed.  When  he  wanted  to 
find  her,  and  make  restitution,  he  could  discover 
no  trace  of  her;  and  the  certainty  that  she  was 
poor  and  friendless  somewhere  had  made  him 
more  miserable  than  ever.  When  he  had  taken 
the  house  next  to  Miss  Minchin's  he  had  been 
so  ill  and  wretched  that  he  had  for  the  time 
given  up  the  search.  His  troubles  and  the  Indian 
climate  had  brought  him  almost  to  death's  door — 
indeed,  he  had  not  expected  to  live  more  than  a 
few  months.  And  then  one  day  the  Lascar  had 
told  him  about  Sara's  speaking  Hindustani,  and 
gradually  he  had  begun  to  take  a  sort  of  interest 
in  the  forlorn  child,  though  he  had  only  caught  a 
glimpse  of  her  once  or  twice  and  he  had  not  con- 
nected her  with  the  child  of  his  friend,  perhaps 
because  he  was  too  languid  to  think  much  about 
anything.  But  the  Lascar  had  found  out  some- 
thing of  Sara's  unhappy  little  life,  and  about  the 
garret.  One  evening  he  had  actually  crept  out  of 
his  own  garret-window  and  looked  into  hers,  which 


Wnat  Happened  at  Miss  Mine  kins     Ji 

was  a  very  easy  matter,  because,  as  I  have  said, 
it  was  only  a  few  feet  away — and  he  had  told  his 
master  what  he  had  seen,  and  in  a  moment  of 
compassion  the  Indian  Gentleman  had  told  him  to 
take  into  the  wretched  little  room  such  comforts 
as  he  could  carry  from  the  one  window  to  the 
other.  And  the  Lascar,  who  had  developed  an 
interest  in,  and  an  odd  fondness  for,  the  child  who 
had  spoken  to  him  in  his  own  tongue,  had  been 
pleased  with  the  work ;  and,  having  the  silent 
swiftness  and  agile  movements  of  many  of  his 
race,  he  had  made  his  evening  journeys  across 
the  few  feet  of  roof  from  garret-window  to  garret- 
window,  without  any  trouble  at  all.  He  had 
watched  Sara's  movements  until  he  knew  exactly 
when  she  was  absent  from  her  room  and  when 
she  returned  to  it,  and  so  he  had  been  able  to  cal- 
culate the  best  times  for  his  work.  Generally  he 
had  made  them  in  the  dusk  of  the  evening ;  but 
once  or  twice,  when  he  had  seen  her  go  out  on 
errands,  he  had  dared  to  go  over  in  the  daytime, 
being  quite  sure  that  the  garret  was  never  entered 
by  any  one  but  herself.  His  pleasure  in  the  work 
and  his  reports  of  the  results  had  added  to  the 
invalid's  interest  in  it,  and  sometimes  the  master 
had  found  the  planning  gave  him  something  to 
think  of,  which  made  him  almost  forget  his  weari- 
ness and  pain.  And  at  last,  when  Sara  brought 
home  the  truant  monkey,  he  had  felt  a  wish  tu 


72  Sara  Crewe;  or 

see  her,  and  then  her  likeness  to  her  father  had 
done  the  rest. 

"  And  now,  my  dear,"  said  good  Mrs.  Carmi- 
chael,  patting  Sara's  hand,  "  all  your  troubles  are 
over,  I  am  sure,  and  you  are  to  come  home  with 
me  and  be  taken  care  of  as  if  you  were  one  of  my 
own  little  girls ;  and  we  are  so  pleased  to  think  of 
having  you  with  us  until  everything  is  settled, 
and  Mr.  Carrisford  is  better.  The  excitement  of 
last  night  has  made  him  very  weak,  but  we  really 
think  he  will  get  well,  now  that  such  a  load  is 
taken  from  his  mind.  And  when  he  is  stronger, 
I  am  sure  he  will  be  as  kind  to  you  as  your  own 
papa  would  have  been.  He  has  a  very  good 
heart,  and  he  is  fond  of  children — and  he  has  no 
family  at  all.  But  we  must  make  you  happy  and 
rosy,  and  you  must  learn  to  play  and  run  about, 
as  my  little  girls  do " 

"  As  your  little  girls  do  ?  "  said  Sara.  "  I  won- 
der if  I  could.  I  used  to  watch  them  and  won- 
der what  it  was  like.  Shall  I  feel  as  if  I  belonged 
to  somebody  ?  " 

"  Ah,  my  love,  yes  ! — yes !  "  said  Mrs.  Carmi- 
chael ;  "  dear  me,  yes !  "  And  her  motherly  blue 
eyes  grew  quite  moist,  and  she  suddenly  took  Sara 
in  her  arms  and  kissed  her.  That  very  night,  be- 
fore she  went  to  sleep,  Sara  had  made  the  ac- 
quaintance of  the  entire  Large  Family,  and  such 
excitement  as  she   and  the   monkey  had  caused 


What  Happened  at  Miss  Minchins     73 

in  that  joyous  circle  could  hardly  be  described. 
There  was  not  a  child  in  the  nursery,  from  the 
Eton  boy  who  was  the  eldest,  to  the  baby  who 
was  the  youngest,  who  had  not  laid  some  offering 
on  her  shrine.  All  the  older  ones  knew  some- 
thing of  her  wonderful  story.  She  had  been  born 
in  India;  she  had  been  poor  and  lonely  and  un- 
happy, and  had  lived  in  a  garret  and  been  treated 
unkindly ;  and  now  she  was  to  be  rich  and  happy, 
and  be  taken  care  of.  They  were  so  sorry  for 
her,  and  so  delighted  and  curious  about  her,  all  at 
once.  The  girls  wished  to  be  with  her  constantly, 
and  the  little  boys  wished  to  be  told  about  India ; 
the  second  baby,  with  the  short  round  legs,  simply 
sat  and  stared  at  her  and  the  monkey,  possibly 
wondering  why  she  had  not  brought  a  hand-organ 
with  her. 

"  I  shall  certainly  wake  up  presently,"  Sara  kept 
saying  to  herself.  "  This  one  must  be  a  dream. 
The  other  one  turned  out  to  be  real;  but  this 
couldrit  be.     But,  oh  !  how  happy  it  is !  " 

And  even  when  she  went  to  bed,  in  the  bright, 
pretty  room  not  far  from  Mrs.  Carmichael's  own, 
and  Mrs.  Carmichael  came  and  kissed  her  and 
patted  her  and  tucked  her  in  cozily,  she  was  not 
sure  that  she  would  not  wake  up  in  the  garret  in 
the  morning. 

"  And  oh,  Charles,  dear,"  Mrs.  Carmichael  said 
to  her  husband,  when  she  went  downstairs  to  him. 


74  Sara  Crewe;  or 

"  we  must  get  that  lonely  look  out  of  her  eyes  i 
It  isn't  a  child's  look  at  all.  I  couldn't  bear  to 
see  it  in  one  of  my  own  children.  What  the  poor 
little  love  must  have  had  to  bear  in  that  dreadfu] 
woman's  house !  But,  surely,  she  will  forget  it  in 
time." 

But  though  the  lonely  look  passed  away  from 
Sara's  face,  she  never  quite  forgot  the  garret  at 
Miss  Minchin's ;  and,  indeed,  she  always  liked  to 
remember  the  wonderful  night  when  the  tired 
princess  crept  upstairs,  cold  and  wet,  and  opening 
the  door  found  fairy-land  waiting  for  her.  And 
there  was  no  one  of  the  many  stories  she  was  al- 
ways being  called  upon  to  tell  in  the  nursery  of 
the  Large  Family  which  was  more  popular  than 
that  particular  one ;  and  there  was  no  one  ol 
whom  the  Large  Family  were  so  fond  as  of  Sara. 
Mr.  Carrisford  did  not  die,  but  recovered,  and 
Sara  went  to  live  with  him ;  and  no  real  princess 
could  have  been  better  taken  care  of  than  she  was. 
It  seemed  that  the  Indian  Gentleman  could  not 
do  enough  to  make  her  happy,  and  to  repay  her 
for  the  past ;  and  the  Lascar  was  her  devoted 
slave.  As  her  odd  little  face  grew  brighter,  it 
grew  so  pretty  and  interesting  that  Mr.  Carris- 
ford used  to  sit  and  watch  it  many  an  evening,  as 
they  sat  by  the  fire  together. 

They  became  great  friends,  and  they  used  to 
spend  hours  reading  and  talking  together ;  and, 


What  Happened  at  Miss  Mine  kins     75 

in   a   very  short   time,  there  was   no  pleasanter 
sight  to  the  Indian  Gentleman  than  Sara  sitting 
in   her  big   chair  on   the   opposite  side    of    the 
hearth,  with  a  book  on    her  knee   and   her  soft, 
dark  hair  tumbling  over  her  warm  cheeks.     She 
had  a  pretty  habit  of  looking  up  at  him  suddenly, 
with  a  bright  smile,  and  then  he  would  often  say 
to  her : 
"Are  you  happy,  Sara?" 
And  then  she  would  answer: 
"  I  feel  like  a  real  princess,  Uncle  Tom." 
He  had  told  her  to  call  him  Uncle  Tom. 
"  There  doesn't   seem  to   be   anything   left  to 
1  suppose,'  "  she  added. 

There  was  a  little  joke  between  them  that  he 
was  a  magician,  and  so  could  do  anything  he 
liked ;  and  it  was  one  of  his  pleasures  to  invent 
plans  to  surprise  her  with  enjoyments  she  had  not 
thought  of.  Scarcely  a  day  passed  in  which  he 
did  not  do  something  new  for  her.  Sometimes 
she  found  new  flowers  in  her  room  ;  sometimes  a 
fanciful  little  gift  tucked  into  some  odd  corner; 
sometimes  a  new  book  on  her  pillow ; — once  as 
they  sat  together  in  the  evening  they  heard  the 
scratch  of  a  heavy  paw  on  the  door  of  the  room, 
and  when  Sara  went  to  find  out  what  it  was,  there 
stood  a  great  dog — a  splendid  Russian  boar-hound 
with  a  grand  silver  and  gold  collar.  Stooping  to 
read  the  inscription  upon  the  collar,  Sara  was  de. 


76  Sara   Crewe  /  or 

lighted  to  read  the  words:  "  I  am  Boris;  I  serve 
the  Princess  Sara." 

Then  there  was  a  sort  of  fairy  nursery  arranged 
for  the  entertainment  of  the  juvenile  members  of 
the  Large  Family,  who  were  always  coming  to 
see  Sara  and  the  Lascar  and  the  monkey.  Sara 
was  as  fond  of  the  Large  Family  as  they  were  of 
her.  She  soon  felt  as  if  she  were  a  member  of  it, 
and  the  companionship  of  the  healthy,  happy 
children  was  very  good  for  her.  All  the  children 
rather  looked  up  to  her  and  regarded  her  as  the 
cleverest  and  most  brilliant  of  creatures — parti- 
cularly after  it  was  discovered  that  she  not  only 
knew  stories  of  every  kind,  and  could  invent  new 
ones  at  a  moment's  notice,  but  that  she  could  help 
with  lessons,  and  speak  French  and  German,  and 
discourse  with  the  Lascar  in  Hindustani. 

It  was  rather  a  painful  experience  for  Miss 
Minchin  to  watch  her  ex-pupil's  fortunes,  as  she 
had  the  daily  opportunity  to  do,  and  to  feel  that 
she  had  made  a  serious  mistake,  from  a  business 
point  of  view.  She  had  even  tried  to  retrieve  it 
by  suggesting  that  Sara's  education  should  be 
continued  under  her  care,  and  had  gone  to  the 
length  of  making  an  appeal  to  the  child  herself. 

"  I  have  always  been  very  fond  of  you,"  she 
said. 

Then  Sara  fixed  her  eyes  upon  her  and  gave  her 
one  of  her  odd  looks. 


What  Happened  at  Miss  Minchiris     yy 

"  Have  you  ?  "  she  answered. 

"  Yes,"  said  Miss  Minchin.  "  Amelia  and  I  have 
always  said  you  were  the  cleverest  child  we  had 
with  us,  and  I  am  sure  we  could  make  you  happy 
— as  a  parlor  boarder." 

Sara  thought  of  the  garret  and  the  day  her  ears 
were  boxed, — and  of  that  other  day,  that  dread- 
ful, desolate  day  when  she  had  been  told  that  she 
belonged  to  nobody  ;  that  she  had  no  home  and 
no  friends, — and  she  kept  her  eyes  fixed  on  Miss 
Minchin's  face. 

"  You  know  why  I  would  not  stay  with  you," 
she  said. 

And  it  seems  probable  that  Miss  Minchin  did, 
for  after  that  simple  answer  she  had  not  the  bold- 
ness to  pursue  the  subject.  She  merely  sent  in  a 
bill  for  the  expense  of  Sara's  education  and  sup- 
port, and  she  made  it  quite  large  enough.  And 
because  Mr.  Carrisford  thought  Sara  would  wish 
it  paid,  it  was  paid.  When  Mr.  Carmichael  pak1 
it  he  had  a  brief  interview  with  Miss  Minchin  in 
which  he  expressed  his  opinion  with  much  clear- 
ness and  force ;  and  it  is  quite  certain  that  Miss 
Minchin  did  not  enjoy  the  conversation. 

Sara  had  been  about  a  month  with  Mr.  Carris- 
ford, and  had  begun  to  realize  that  her  happiness 
was  not  a  dream,  when  one  night  the  Indian  Gen- 
tleman saw  that  she  sat  a  long  time  with  her 
cheek  on  her  hand  looking  at  the  fire. 


78  Sara  Crewe  ;  or 

"What  are  you  'supposing,'  Sara?"  he  asked. 
Sara  looked  up  with  a  bright  color  on  her  cheeks. 

"  I  was  '  supposing,'  "  she  said  ;  "  I  was  remem- 
bering that  hungry  day,  and  a  child  I  saw." 

"  But  there  were  a  great  many  hungry  days," 
said  the  Indian  Gentleman,  with  a  rather  sad  tone 
in  his  voice.     "  Which  hungry  day  was  it?  " 

"  I  forgot  you  didn't  know,"  said  Sara.  "  It 
was  the  day  I  found  the  things  in  my  garret." 

And  then  she  told  him  the  story  of  the  bun-shop, 
and  the  fourpence,  and  the  child  who  was  hungrier 
than  herself ;  and  somehow  as  she  told  it,  though 
she  told  it  very  simply  indeed,  the  Indian  Gentle- 
man found  it  necessary  to  shade  his  eyes  with  his 
hand  and  look  down  at  the  floor. 

"  And  I  was  '  supposing '  a  kind  of  plan,"  said 
Sara,  when  she  had  finished ;  "  I  was  thinking  I 
would  like  to  do  something." 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  said  her  guardian  in  a  low  tone. 
"  You  may  do  anything  you  like  to  do,  Princess." 

"  I  was  wondering,"  said  Sara, — "  you  know  you 
say  I  have  a  great  deal  of  money — and  I  was 
wondering  if  I  could  go  and  see  the  bun-woman 
and  tell  her  that  if,  when  hungry  children — par- 
ticularly on  those  dreadful  days — come  and  sit  on 
the  steps  or  look  in  at  the  window,  she  would 
just  call  them  in  and  give  them  something  to  eat, 
she  might  send  the  bills  to  me  and  I  would  pay 
them — could  I  do  that  ?  " 


What  Happened  at  Miss  Minchiris     79 

"  You  shall  do  it  to-morrow  morning,"  said  the 
Indian  Gentleman. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Sara ;  "  you  see  I  know 
what  it  is  to  be  hungry,  and  it  is  very  hard  when 
one  can't  even  pretend  it  away." 

"  Yes,  yes,  my  dear,"  said  the  Indian  Gentle- 
man. "  Yes,  it  must  be.  Try  to  forget  it.  Come 
and  sit  on  this  footstool  near  my  knee,  and  only 
remember  you  are  a  princess." 

"  Yes,"  said  Sara,  "  and  I  can  give  buns  and 
bread  to  the  Populace."  And  she  went  and 
sat  on  the  stool,  and  the  Indian  Gentleman  (he 
used  to  like  her  to  call  him  that,  too,  sometimes, 
— in  fact  very  often)  drew  her  small,  dark  head 
down  upon  his  knee  and  stroked  her  hair. 

The  next  morning  a  carriage  drew  up  before 
the  door  of  the  baker's  shop,  and  a  gentleman 
and  a  little  girl  got  out, — oddly  enough,  just  as 
the  bun-woman  was  putting  a  tray  of  smoking 
hot  buns  into  the  window.  When  Sara  entered 
the  shop  the  woman  turned  and  looked  at  her 
and,  leaving  the  buns,  came  and  stood  behind  the 
counter.  For  a  moment  she  looked  at  Sara  very 
hard  indeed,  and  then  her  good  -  natured  face 
lighted  up. 

"  I'm  that  sure  I  remember  you,  miss,"  she  said. 
"  Ai?d  yet " 

"  Yes/'  said  Sara,  '  once  you  gave  me  six  buns 
for  fourpence,  and " 


80  Sara  Crewe  :  or 

"And  you  gave  five  of  'em  to  a  beggar-child," 
said  the  woman.  "  I've  always  remembered  it.  1 
couldn't  make  it  out  at  first.  I  beg  pardon,  sir, 
but  there's  not  many  young  people  that  notices  a 
hungry  face  in  that  way,  and  I've  thought  of  it 
many  a  time.  Excuse  the  liberty,  miss,  but  you 
look  rosier  and  better  than  you  did  that  day." 

"  I  am  better,  thank  you,"  said  Sara,  "  and — and 
I  am  happier,  and  I  have  come  to  ask  you  to  do 
something  for  me." 

"  Me,  miss !  "  exclaimed  the  woman,  "  why,  bless 
you,  yes,  miss !     What  can  I  do  ?  " 

And  then  Sara  made  her  little  proposal,  and  the 
woman  listened  to  it  with  an  astonished  face. 

"  Why,  bless  me  !  "  she  said,  when  she  had  heard 
it  all.  "  Yes,  miss,  it'll  be  a  pleasure  to  me  to  do 
it.  I  am  a  working  woman,  myself,  and  can't 
afford  to  do  much  on  my  own  account,  and  there's 
.lights  of  trouble  on  every  side  ;  but  if  you'll  ex- 
cuse me,  I'm  bound  to  say  I've  given  many  a  bit 
A  bread  away  since  that  wet  afternoon,  just  along 
o'  thinkin'  of  you.  An'  how  wet  an'  cold  you  was, 
an'  how  you  looked, — an'  yet  you  give  away  your 
hot  buns  as  if  you  was  a  princess." 

The  Indian  Gentleman  smiled  involuntarily, 
and  Sara  smiled  a  little  too.  "  She  looked  so 
hungry,"  she  said.  "  She  was  hungrier  than  I 
was." 

"  She  was  starving,"  said  the  woman.     "  Many's 


"BE  DREW  HER  SMALL  DARK  HEAD  DOWN  UPON  HIS  Efffit  ) 
AND  STROKED  HER  HAIR."  J 


What  Happened  at  Miss  Mine  kin's     83 

the  time  she's  told  me  of  it  since — how  she  sat 
there  in  the  wet,  and  felt  as  if  a  wolf  was  a-tear- 
ing  at  her  poor  young  insides." 

"  Oh,  have  you  seen  her  since  then  ?  "  exclaimed 
Sara.     "  Do  you  know  where  she  is  ?  " 

"  I  know  !  "  said  the  woman.  "  Why,  she's  in 
that  there  back  room  now,  miss,  an'  has  been  for 
a  month,  an'  a  decent,  well-meaning  girl  she's 
going  to  turn  out,  an'  such  a  help  to  me  in  the 
day  shop,  an'  in  the  kitchen,  as  you'd  scarce  be- 
lieve, knowing  how  she's  lived." 

She  stepped  to  the  door  of  the  little  back  parlor 
and  spoke ;  and  the  next  minute  a  girl  came  out 
and  followed  her  behind  the  counter.  And  ac- 
tually it  was  the  beggar-child,  clean  and  neatly 
clothed,  and  looking  as  if  she  had  not  been  hun- 
gry for  a  long  time.  She  looked  shy,  but  she  had 
a  nice  face,  now  that  she  was  no  longer  a  savage  ; 
and  the  wild  look  had  gone  from  her  eyes.  And 
she  knew  Sara  in  an  instant,  and  stood  and  looked 
at  her  as  if  she  could  never  look  enough. 

"You  see,"  said  the  woman,  "  I  told  her  to 
come  here  when  she  was  hungry,  and  when  she'd 
come  I'd  give  her  odd  jobs  to  do,  an'  I  found  she 
was  willing,  an'  somehow  I  got  to  like  her ;  an' 
the  end  of  it  was  I've  given  her  a  place  an' a  home, 
an'  she  helps  me,  an'  behaves  as  well,  an'  is  as 
thankful  as  a  girl  can  be.  Her  name's  Anne — she 
has  no  other." 


84  ,  Sara  Crewe 

The  two  children  stood  and  looked  at  each 
other  a  few  moments.  In  Sara's  eyes  a  new 
thought  was  growing. 

"  I'm  glad  you  have  such  a  good  home,"  she 
said.  "  Perhaps  Mrs.  Brown  will  let  you  give 
the  buns  and  bread  to  the  children — perhaps  you 
would  like  to  do  it — because  you  know  what  it  is 
to  be  hungry,  too." 

"  Yes,  miss,"  said  the  girl. 

And  somehow  Sara  felt  as  if  she  understood 
her,  though  the  girl  said  nothing  more,  and  only 
stood  still  and  looked,  and  looked  after  her  as  she 
went  out  of  the  shop  and  got  into  the  carriage 
and  drove  away. 


TTLE   SAINT    ELIZABETH 


dTTLE    SAINT    ELIZABETH 

SHE  had  not  been  brought  up  in  America  at 
all.  She  had  been  born  in  France,  in  a  beautiful 
ch&teau,  and  she  had  been  born  heiress  to  a  great 
fortune,  but,  nevertheless,  just  now  she  felt  as  if  she 
was  very  poor,  indeed.  And  yet  her  home  was 
in  one  of  the  most  splendid  houses  in  New  York. 
She  had  a  lovely  suite  of  apartments  of  her  own, 
though  she  was  only  eleven  years  old.  She  had 
had  her  own  carriage  and  a  saddle  horse,  a  train 
of  masters,  and  governesses,  and  servants,  and 
was  regarded  by  all  the  children  of  the  neighbor- 
hood as  a  sort  of  grand  and  mysterious  little 
princess,  whose  incomings  and  outgoings  were  to 
be  watched  with  the  greatest  interest. 

"  There  she  is,"  they  would  cry,  flying  to  their 
windows  to  look  at  her.  "  She  is  going  out  in  her 
carriage."  "  She  is  dressed  all  in  black  velvet  and 
splendid  fur."  "  That  is  her  own,  own,  carriage." 
"  She  has  millions  of  money ;  and  she  can  have 
anything  she  wants — Jane  says  so  !  "  "  She  is 
very  pretty,  too ;  but  she  is  so  pale  and  has  such 
big,  sorrowful,  b'ack  eyes.     I  should  not  be  sor- 


88  Little  Saint  Elizabeth 

rowful  if  I  were  in  her  place ;  but  Jane  says  the 
servants  say  she  is  always  quiet  and  looks  sad." 
"  Her  maid  says  she  lived  with  her  aunt,  and  her 
aunt  made  her  too  religious." 

She  rarely  lifted  her  large  dark  eyes  to  look  at 
them  with  any  curiosity.  She  was  not  accus- 
tomed to  the  society  of  children.  She  had  never 
had  a  child  companion  in  her  life,  and  these  little 
Americans,  who  were  so  very  rosy  and  gay,  and 
who  went  out  to  walk  or  drive  with  groups  of 
brothers  and  sisters,  and  even  ran  in  the  street, 
laughing  and  playing  and  squabbling  healthily — 
these  children  amazed  her. 

Poor  little  Saint  Elizabeth  !  She  had  not  lived 
a  very  natural  or  healthy  life  herself,  and  she  knew 
absolutely  nothing  of  real  childish  pleasures.  You 
see,  it  had  occurred  in  this  way  :  When  she  was 
a  baby  of  two  years  her  young  father  and  mother 
died,  within  a  week  of  each  other,  of  a  terrible 
fever,  and  the  only  near  relatives  the  little  one 
had  were  her  Aunt  Clotilde  and  Uncle  Bertrand. 
Her  Aunt  Clotilde  lived  in  Normandy — her  Uncle 
Bertrand  in  New  York.  As  these  two  were  her 
only  guardians,  and  as  Bertrand  de  Rochemont 
was  a  gay  bachelor,  fond  of  pleasure  and  knowing 
nothing  of  babies,  it  was  natural  that  he  should  be 
very  willing  that  his  elder  sister  should  undertake 
the  rearing  and  education  of  the  child. 

"  Only,"  he  wrote  to  Mademoiselle  de  Roche- 


THERE  SHE   IS."    THEY   WOULD  CRY. 


Little  Saint  Elizabeth  91 

mont,  "  don't  end  by  training  her  for  an  abbess, 
my  dear  Clotilde." 

There  was  a  very  great  difference  between  these 
two  people — the  distance  between  the  gray  stone 
chateau  in  Normandy  and  the  brown  stone  man- 
sion in  New  York  was  not  nearly  so  great  as  the 
distance  and  difference  between  the  two  lives. 
And  yet  it  was  said  that  in  her  first  youth  Madem- 
oiselle de  Rochemont  had  been  as  gay  and  fond 
of  pleasure  as  either  of  her  brothers.  And  then, 
when  her  life  was  at  its  brightest  and  gayest — 
when  she  was  a  beautiful  and  brilliant  young 
woman — she  had  had  a  great  and  bitter  sorrow, 
which  had  changed  her  for  ever.  From  that  time 
she  had  never  left  the  house  in  which  she  had 
been  born,  and  had  lived  the  life  of  a  nun  in  every- 
thing but  being  enclosed  in  convent  walls.  At 
first  she  had  had  her  parents  to  take  care  of,  but 
when  they  died  she  had  been  left  entirely  alone  in 
the  great  chdteau,  and  devoted  herself  to  prayer 
and  works  of  charity  among  the  villagers  and 
country  people. 

"  Ah  !  she  is  good — she  is  a  saint  Mademoiselle," 
the  poor  people  always  said  when  speaking  of  her*, 
but  they  also  always  looked  a  little  awe-stricken 
when  she  appeared,  and  never  were  sorry  when 
she  left  them. 

She  was  a  tall  woman,  with  a  pale,  rigid,  hand- 
some face,  which  never  smiled.     She  did  nothing 


92  Little  Saint  Elizabeth 

but  good  deeds,  but  however  grateful  her  pen- 
sioners might  be,  nobody  would  ever  have  dared 
to  dream  of  loving  her.  She  was  just  and  cold 
and  severe.  She  wore  always  a  straight  black 
serge  gown,  broad  bands  of  white  linen,  and  a 
rosary  and  crucifix  at  her  waist.  She  read  noth- 
ing but  religious  works  and  legends  of  the  saints 
and  martyrs,  and  adjoining  her  private  apartments 
was  a  little  stone  chapel,  where  the  servants  said 
she  used  to  kneel  on  the  cold  floor  before  the  al- 
tar and  pray  for  hours  in  the  middle  of  the  night. 

The  little  cure"  of  the  village,  who  was  plump 
and  comfortable,  and  who  had  the  kindest  heart 
and  the  most  cheerful  soul  in  the  world,  used  to 
remonstrate  with  her,  always  in  a  roundabout 
way,  however,  never  quite  as  if  he  were  referring 
directly  to  herself. 

"  One  must  not  let  one's  self  become  the  stone 
image  of  goodness,"  he  said  once.  "  Since  one  is 
really  of  flesh  and  blood,  and  lives  among  flesh 
and  blood,  that  is  not  best.  No,  no;  it  is  not 
best." 

But  Mademoiselle  de  Rochemont  never  seemed 
exactly  of  flesh  and  blood — she  was  more  like  a 
marble  female  saint  who  had  descended  from  her 
pedestal  to  walk  upon  the  earth. 

And  she  did  not  change,  even  when  the  baby 
Elizabeth  was  brought  to  her.  She  attended 
strictly  to  the  child's  comfort  and  prayed  many 


Little  Saint  Elizabeth  Q3 

prayers  for  her  innocent  soul,  but  it  can  be  scarce- 
ly said  that  her  manner  was  any  softer  or  that 
she  smiled  more.  At  first  Elizabeth  used  to 
scream  at  the  sight  of  the  black,  nun-like  dress 
and  the  rigid,  handsome  face,  but  in  course  of 
time  she  became  accustomed  to  them,  and, 
through  living  in  an  atmosphere  so  silent  and 
without  brightness,  a  few  months  changed  her 
from  a  laughing,  romping  baby  into  a  pale,  quiet 
child,  who  rarely  made  any  childish  noise  at  ail. 

In  this  quiet  way  she  became  fond  of  her  aunt. 
She  saw  little  of  anyone  but  the  servants,  who 
were  all  trained  to  quietness  also.  As  soon  as 
she  was  old  enough  her  aunt  began  her  religious 
training.  Before  she  could  speak  plainly  she 
heard  legends  of  saints  and  stories  of  martyrs. 
She  was  taken  into  the  little  chapel  and  taught  to 
pray  there.  She  believed  in  miracles,  and  would 
not  have  been  surprised  at  any  moment  if  she  had 
met  the  Child  Jesus  or  the  Virgin  in  the  beautiful 
rambling  gardens  which  surrounded  the  chdteau. 
She  was  a  sensitive,  imaginative  child,  and  the 
sacred  romances  she  heard  filled  all  her  mind  and 
made  up  her  little  life.  She  wished  to  be  a  saint 
herself,  and  spent  hours  in  wandering  in  the  ter- 
raced rose  gardens  wondering  if  such  a  thing  was 
possible  in  modern  days,  and  what  she  must  do  to 
obtain  such  holy  victory.  Her  chief  sorrow  was 
that   she   knew  herself   to  be   delicate  and  very 


94  Little  Saint  Elizaoetk 

timid — so  timid  that  she  often  suffered  when  peo- 
ple" did  not  suspect  it — and  she  was  afraid  that  she 
was  not  brave  enough  to  be  a  martyr.  Once, 
poor  little  one !  when  she  was  alone  in  her  room, 
she  held  her  hand  over  a  burning  wax  candle,  but 
the  pain  was  so  terrible  that  she  could  not  keep  it 
there.  Indeed,  she  fell  back  white  and  faint,  and 
sank  upon  her  chair,  breathless  and  in  tears,  be- 
cause she  felt  sure  that  she  could  not  chant  holy 
songs  if  she  were  being  burned  at  the  stake.  She 
had  been  vowed  to  the  Virgin  in  her  babyhood, 
and  was  always  dressed  in  white  and  blue,  but  her 
little  dress  was  a  small  conventual  robe,  straight 
and  narrow  cut,  of  white  woollen  stuff,  and  banded 
plainly  with  blue  at  the  waist.  She  did  not  look 
like  other  children,  but  she  was  very  sweet  and 
gentle,, and  her  pure  little  pale  face  and  large, 
dark  eyes  had  a  loveiy  dreamy  look.  When  she 
was  old  enough  to  visit  the  poor  with  her  Aunt 
Clotilde  —  and  she  was  hardly  seven  years  old 
when  it  was  considered  proper  that  she  should 
begin — the  villagers  did  not  stand  in  awe  of  her. 
They  began  to  adore  her,  almost  to  worship  her, 
as  if  she  had,  indeed,  been  a  sacred  child.  The 
little  ones  delighted  to  look  at  her,  to  draw  near 
her  sometimes  and  touch  her  soft  white  and  blue 
robe.  And,  when  they  did  so,  she  always  re- 
turned their  looks  with  such  a  tender,  sympathet- 
ic smile,  and  spoke  to  them  in  so  gentle  a  voice, 


Little  Saint  Elizabeth  95 

that  they  were  in  ecstasies.  They  used  to  talk 
her  over,  tell  stories  about  her  when  they  were 
playing  together  afterwards. 

"  The  little  Mademoiselle,"  they  said,  "  she  is  a 
child  saint.  I  have  heard  them  say  so.  Some- 
times there  is  a  little  light  round  her  head.  One 
day  her  little  white  robe  will  begin  to  shine  too, 
and  her  long  sleeves  will  be  wings,  and  she  will 
spread  them  and  ascend  through  the  blue  sky  to 
Paradise.     You  will  see  if  it  is  not  so." 

So,  in  this  secluded  world  in  the  gray  old  chd- 
teau,  with  no  companion  but  her  aunt,  with  no  oc- 
cupation but  her  studies  and  her  charities,  with 
no  thoughts  but  those  of  saints  and  religious  ex- 
ercises, Elizabeth  lived  until  she  was  eleven  years 
old.  Then  a  great  grief  befell  her.  One  morn- 
ing, Mademoiselle  de  Rochemont  did  not  leave 
her  room  at  the  regular  hour.  As  she  never 
broke  a  rule  she  had  made  for  herself  and  her 
household,  this  occasioned  great  wonder.  Her 
old  maid  servant  waited  half  an  hour — went  to 
her  door,  and  took  the  liberty  of  listening  to  hear 
if  she  was  up  and  moving  about  her  room.  There 
was  no  sound.  Old  Alice  returned,  looking  quite 
agitated.  "  Would  Mademoiselle  Elizabeth  mind 
entering  to  see  if  all  was  well?  Mademoiselle 
her  aunt  might  be  in  the  chapel." 

Elizabeth  went.  Her  aunt  was  not  in  her  room. 
Then  she  must  be  in  the  chapel.     The  child  en- 


96  Little  Saint  Elizabeth 

tered  the  sacred  little  place.  The  morning  sun 
was  '-streaming  in  through  the  stained-glass  win- 
dows above  the  altar — a  broad  ray  of  mingled 
brilliant  colors  slanted  to  the  stone  floor  and 
warmly  touched  a  dark  figure  lying  there.  It 
<vas  Aunt  Clotilde,  who  had  sunk  forward  while 
.neeling  at  prayer  and  had  died  in  the  night. 

That  was  what  the  doctors  said  when  they 
vere  sent  for.  She  had  been  dead  some  hours — 
she  had  died  of  disease  of  the  heart,  and  ap- 
parently without  any  pain  or  knowledge  of  the 
change  coming  to  her.  Her  face  was  serene  and 
beautiful,  and  the  rigid  look  had  melted  away. 
Someone  said  she  looked  like  little  Mademoiselle 
Elizabeth ;  and  her  old  servant  Alice  wept  very 
much,  and  said,  "  Yes — yes — it  was  so  when  she 
was  young,  before  her  unhappiness  came.  She 
had  the  same  beautiful  little  face,  but  she  was 
more  gay,  more  of  the  world.  Yes,  they  were 
much  alike  then." 

Less  than  two  months  from  that  time  Elizabeth 
was  living  in  the  home  of  her  Uncle  Bertrand, 
in  New  York.  He  had  come  to  Normandy  for 
her  himself,  and  taken  her  back  with  him  across 
the  Atlantic.  She  was  richer  than  ever  now,  as  a 
great  deal  of  her  Aunt  Clotilde's  money  had  been 
left  to  her,  and  Uncle  Bertrand  was  her  guardian. 
He  was  a  handsome,  elegant,  clever  man,  who, 
having  lived  long  in  America  and  being  fond  of 


»T  WAS  AUNT  CLOTILDE,  WHO  HAD  SUNK  FORWARD  WHILE  KNEELING 
AT  PRAYER. 


Little  Saint  Elizabeth  99 

American  life,  did  not  appear  very  much  like  a 
Frenchman  —  at  least  he  did  not  appear  so  to 
Elizabeth,  who  had  only  seen  the  cure"  and  the 
doctor  of  the  village.  Secretly  he  was  very 
much  embarrassed  at  the  prospect  of  taking  care 
of  a  little  girl,  but  family  pride,  and  the  fact  that 
such  a  very  little  girl,  who  was  also  such  a  very 
great  heiress,  must  be  taken  care  of  sustained 
him.  But  when  he  first  saw  Elizabeth  he  could 
not  restrain  an  exclamation  of  consternation. 

She  entered  the  room,  when  she  was  sent  for, 
clad  in  a  strange  little  nun -like  robe  of  black 
serge,  made  as  like  her  dead  aunt's  as  possible. 
At  her  small  waist  were  the  rosary  and  crucifix, 
and  in  her  hand  she  held  a  missal  she  had  for- 
gotten in  her  agitation  to  lay  down 

"  But,  my  dear  child,"  exclaimed  Uncle  Ber- 
trand,  staring  at  her  aghast. 

He  managed  to  recover  himself  very  quickly, 
and  was,  in  his  way,  very  kind  to  her ;  but  the 
first  thing  he  did  was  to  send  to  Paris  for  a 
fashionable  maid  and  fashionable  mourning. 

"  Because,  as  you  will  see,"  he  remarked  to 
Alice,  "  we  cannot  travel  as  we  are.  It  is  a 
costume  for  a  convent  or  the  stage." 

Before  she  took  off  her  little  conventual  robe, 
Elizabeth  went  to  the  village  to  visit  all  her 
poor.  The  cure"  went  with  her  and  shed  tears 
himself   when   the   people    wept   and  kissed  her 


ioo  Little  Saint  Elizabeth 

little  hand.  When  the  child  returned,  she  went 
into*  the  chapel  and  remained  there  for  a  long 
time. 

She  felt  as  if  she  was  living  in  a  dream  when 
all  the  old  life  was  left  behind  and  she  found  her- 
self in  the  big  luxurious  house  in  the  gay  New 
York  street.  Nothing  that  could  be  done  for  her 
comfort  had  been  left  undone.  She  had  several 
beautiful  rooms,  a  wonderful  governess,  different 
masters  to  teach  her,  her  own  retinue  of  servants 
as,  indeed,  has  been  already  said. 

But,  secretly,  she  felt  bewildered  and  almost 
terrified,  everything  was  so  new,  so  strange,  so 
noisy,  and  so  brilliant.  The  dress  she  wore  made 
her  feel  unlike  herself ;  the  books  they  gave  her 
were  full  of  pictures  and  stories  of  worldly  things 
of  which  she  knew  nothing.  Her  carriage  was 
brought  to  the  door  and  she  went  out  with  her 
governess,  driving  round  and  round  the  park  with 
scores  of  other  people  who  looked  at  her  curi- 
ously, she  did  not  know  why.  The  truth  was 
that  her  refined  little  face  was  very  beautiful  in 
deed,  and  her  soft  dark  eyes  still  wore  the  dreamy 
spiritual  look  which  made  her  unlike  the  rest  of 
the  world. 

"  She  looks  like  a  little  princess,"  she  heard  her 
uncle  say  one  day.  "  She  will  be  some  day  a 
beautiful,  an  enchanting  woman — her  mother  was 
so  when  she  died  at  twenty,  but  she  had  been 


Little  Saint  Elizabeth  101 

brought  up  differently.  This  one  is  a  little  devo- 
tee. I  am  afraid  of  her.  Her  governess  tells  me 
she  rises  in  the  night  to  pray."  He  said  it  with 
light  laughter  to  some  of  his  gay  friends  by  whom 
he  had  wished  the  child  to  be  seen.  He  did  not 
know  that  his  gayety  filled  her  with  fear  and 
pain.  She  had  been  taught  to  believe  gayety 
worldly  and  sinful,  and  his  whole  life  was  filled 
with  it.  He  had  brilliant  parties — he  did  not  go 
to  church — he  had  no  pensioners — he  seemed  to 
think  of  nothing  but  pleasure.  Poor  little  Saint 
Elizabeth  prayed  for  his  soul  many  an  hour  when 
he  was  asleep  after  a  grand  dinner  or  supper 
party. 

He  could  not  possibly  have  dreamed  that  there 
was  no  one  of  whom  she  stood  in  such  dread ; 
her  timidity  increased  tenfold  in  his  presence. 
When  he  sent  for  her  and  she  went  into  the  li- 
brary to  find  him  luxurious  in  his  arm  chair,  a 
novel  on  his  knee,  a  cigar  in  his  white  hand,  a 
tolerant,  half  cynical  smile  on  his  handsome  mouth, 
she  could  scarcely  answer  his  questions,  and  could 
never  find  courage  to  tell  what  she  so  earnestly 
desired.  She  had  found  out  early  that  Aunt  Clo- 
tilde  and  the  cure",  and  the  life  they  had  led,  had 
only  aroused  in  his  mind  a  half-pitying  amuse- 
ment. It  seemed  to  her  that  he  did  not  under- 
stand and  had  strange  sacrilegious  thoughts  about 
them — he  did  not  believe  in  miracles — he  smiled 


102  Little  Saint  Elizabeth 

when  she  spoke  of  saints.  How  could  she  tell 
hifri  that  she  wished  to  spend  all  her  money  in 
building  churches  and  giving  alms  to  the  poor? 
That  was  what  she  wished  to  tell  him — that  she 
wanted  money  to  send  back  to  the  village,  that 
she  wanted  to  give  it  to  the  poor  people  she  saw 
in  the  streets,  to  those  who  lived  in  the  miserable 
places. 

But  when  she  found  herself  face  to  face  with 
him  and  he  said  some  witty  thing  to  her  and 
seemed  to  find  her  only  amusing,  all  her  courage 
failed  her.  Sometimes  she  thought  she  would 
throw  herself  upon  her  knees  before  him  and  beg 
him  to  send  her  back  to  Normandy — to  let  her 
live  alone  in  the  chdteau  as  her  Aunt  Clotilde  had 
done. 

One  morning  she  arose  very  early,  and  knelt  a 
long  time  before  the  little  altar  she  had  made  for 
herself  in  her  dressing  room.  It  was  only  a 
table  with  some  black  velvet  thrown  over  it,  a 
crucifix,  a  saintly  image,  and  some  flowers  stand- 
ing upon  it.  She  had  put  on,  when  she  got  up, 
the  quaint  black  serge  robe,  because  she  felt  more 
at  home  in  it,  and  her  heart  was  full  of  determina- 
tion. The  night  before  she  had  received  a  letter 
from  the  curt  and  it  had  contained  sad  news.  A 
fever  had  broken  out  in  her  beloved  village,  the 
vines  had  done  badly,  there  was  sickness  among 
the  cattle,  there   was    already  beginning    to   be 


THE  VILLAGERS  DID  NOT  pT4ISD  |N  AWfc  0F  HER. 


Little  Saint  Elizabeth  105 

suffering,  and  if  something  were  not  done  for  the 
people  they  would  not  know  how  to  face  the  win- 
ter.  In  the  time  of  Mademoiselle  de  Rochemont 
they  had  always  been  made  comfortable  and 
happy  at  Christmas.  What  was  to  be  done  ?  The 
cure"  ventured  to  write  to  Mademoiselle  Eliza- 
beth. 

The  poor  child  had  scarcely  slept  at  all.  Her 
dear  village!  Her  dear  people!  The  children 
would  be  hungry ;  the  cows  would  die ;  there 
would  be  no  fires  to  warm  those  who  were  old. 

"  I  must  go  to  uncle,"  she  said,  pale  and  trem- 
bling. "  I  must  ask  him  to  give  me  money.  I 
am  afraid,  but  it  is  right  to  mortify  the  spirit. 
The  martyrs  went  to  the  stake.  The  holy  Saint 
Elizabeth  was  ready  to  endure  anything  that  she 
might  do  her  duty  and  help  the  poor." 

Because  she  had  been  called  Elizabeth  she  had 
thought  and  read  a  great  deal  of  the  saint  whose 
namesake  she  was — the  saintly  Elizabeth  whose 
husband  was  so  wicked  and  cruel,  and  who  wished 
to  prevent  her  from  doing  good  deeds.  And 
oftenest  of  all  she  had  read  the  legend  which  told 
that  one  day  as  Elizabeth  went  out  with  a  basket 
of  food  to  give  to  the  poor  and  hungry,  she  had 
met  hev  savage  husband,  who  had  demanded  that 
she  should  tell  him  what  she  was  carrying,  and 
when  she  replied  "  Roses,"  and  he  tore  the  cover 
from  the  basket  to  see  il  she  spoke  the  truth,  1 


106  Little  Saint  Elizabeth 

miracle  had  been  performed,  and  the  basket  was 
filled  with  roses,  so  that  she  had  been  saved  from 
her  husband's  cruelty,  and  also  from  telling  an 
untruth.  To  little  Elizabeth  this  legend  had  been 
beautiful  and  quite  real  —  it  proved  that  if  one 
were  doing  good,  the  saints  would  take  care  of 
one.  Since  she  had  been  in  her  new  home,  she 
had,  half  consciously,  compared  her  Uncle  Ber- 
trand  with  the  wicked  Landgrave,  though  she 
was  too  gentle  and  just  to  think  he  was  really 
cruel,  as  Saint  Elizabeth's  husband  had  been,  only 
he  did  not  care  for  the  poor,  and  loved  only  the 
world — and  surely  that  was  wicked.  She  had 
been  taught  that  to  care  for  the  world  at  all  was 
a  fatal  sin. 

She  did  not  eat  any  breakfast.  She  thought 
she  would  fast  until  she  had  done  what  she  in- 
tended to  do.  It  had  been  her  Aunt  Clotilde's 
habit  to  fast  very  often. 

She  waited  anxiously  to  hear  that  her  Uncle 
Bertrand  had  left  his  room.  He  always  rose  late, 
and  this  morning  he  was  later  than  usual  as  he 
had  had  a  long  gay  dinner  party  the  night  before. 

It  was  nearly  twelve  before  she  heard  his  door 
open.  Then  she  went  quickly  to  the  staircase. 
Her  heart  was  beating  so  fast  that  she  put  her 
little  hand  to  her  side  and  waited  a  moment  to  re- 
gain her  breath.     She  felt  quite  cold. 

"  Perhaps  I  must  wait  until  he  has  eaten  his 


Little  Saint  Elizabeth  107 

breakfast,"  she  said.  "  Perhaps  I  must  not  dis- 
turb him  yet.  It  would  make  him  displeased.  I 
will  wait — yes,  for  a  little  while." 

She  did  not  return  to  her  room,  but  waited 
upon  the  stairs.  It  seemed  to  be  a  long  time.  It 
appeared  that  a  friend  breakfasted  with  him.  She 
heard  a  gentleman  come  in  and  recognized  his 
voice,  which  she  had  heard  before.  She  did  not 
know  what  the  gentleman's  name  was,  but  she 
had  met  him  going  in  and  out  with  her  uncle  once 
or  twice,  and  had  thought  he  had  a  kind  face 
and  kind  eyes.  He  had  looked  at  her  in  an  inter- 
ested way  when  he  spoke  to  her — even  as  if  he 
were  a  little  curious,  and  she  had  wondered  why 
he  did  so. 

When  the  door  of  the  breakfast  room  opened 
and  shut  as  the  servants  went  in,  she  could  hear 
the  two  laughing  and  talking.  They  seemed  to 
be  enjoying  themselves  very  much.  Once  she 
heard  an  order  given  for  the  mail  phaeton. 
They  were  evidently  going  out  as  soon  as  the 
meal  was  over. 

At  last  the  door  opened  and  they  were  coming 
out.  Elizabeth  ran  down  the  stairs  and  stood  in 
a  small  reception  room.  Her  heart  began  to  beat 
faster  than  ever. 

"  The  blessed  martyrs  were  not  afraid,"  she 
whispered  to  herself. 

"  Uncle  Bertrand  !  "  she  said,  as  he  approached, 


io8  Little  Saint  Elizabeth 

and  she  scarcely  knew  her  own  faint  voice. 
"  Uncle  Bertrand " 

He  turned,  and  seeing  her,  started,  and  ex- 
claimed, rather  impatiently — evidently  he  was  at 
once  amazed  and  displeased  to  see  her.  He  was 
in  a  hurry  to  get  out,  and  the  sight  of  her  odd 
little  figure,  standing  in  its  straight  black  robe 
between  the  portieres,  the  slender  hands  clasped  on 
the  breast,  the  small  pale  face  and  great  dark 
eyes  uplifted,  was  certainly  a  surprise  to  him. 

"  Elizabeth  ! "  he  said,  "  what  do  you  wish  ? 
Why  do  you  come  downstairs  ?  And  that  impos- 
sible dress !  Why  do  you  wear  it  again  ?  It  is 
not  suitable." 

"  Uncle  Bertrand,"  said  the  child,  clasping  her 
hands  still  more  tightly,  her  eyes  growing  larger 
in  her  excitement  and  terror  under  his  dis- 
pleasure, "  it  is  that  I  want  money — a  great  deal. 
I  beg  your  pardon  if  I  derange  you.  It  is  for  the 
poor.  Moreover,  the  curt  has  written  the  people 
of  the  village  are  ill — the  vineyards  did  not  yield 
well.  They  must  have  money.  I  must  send  them 
some." 

Uncle  Bertrand  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  That  is  the  message  of  monsieur  le  cure",  is  it  ?  " 
he  said.  "  He  wants  money  !  My  dear  Elizabeth, 
I  must  inquire  further.  You  have  a  fortune,  but  I 
cannot  permit  you  to  throw  it  away.  You  are  a 
child,  and  do  not  understand " 


"UNCLE    BERTRAND,"   SAID  THE  CHILD,  CLAsHlNu  UfcK  HAWDS 


Little  Saint  Elizabeth  in 

"But,"  cried  Elizabeth,  trembling  with  agita. 
tion,  "  they  are  so  poor  when  one  does  not  help 
them  :  their  vineyards  are  so  little,  and  if  the  year 
is  bad  they  must  starve.  Aunt  Clotilde  gave  to 
them  every  year — even  in  the  good  years.  She 
said  they  must  be  cared  for  like  children." 

11  That  was  your  Aunt  Clotilde's  charity,"  re- 
plied her  uncle.  "  Sometimes  she  was  not  so  wist 
as  she  was  devout.  I  must  know  more  of  this. 
I  have  no  time  at  present.  I  am  going  out  of 
town.  In  a  few  days  I  will  reflect  upon  it.  Tell 
your  maid  to  give  that  hideous  garment  away. 
Go  out  to  drive  —  amuse  yourself  —  you  are  too 
pale." 

Elizabeth  looked  at  his  handsome,  careless  face 
in  utter  helplessness.  This  was  a  matter  of  life 
and  death  to  her ;  to  him  it  meant  nothing. 

"  But  it  is  winter,"  she  panted,  breathlessly ; 
"  there  is  snow.  Soon  it  will  be  Christmas,  and 
they  will  have  nothing — no  candles  for  the  church, 
no  little  manger  for  the  holy  child,  nothing  for 
the  poorest  ones.     And  the  children " 

"  It  shall  be  thought  of  later,"  said  Uncle  Ber- 
trand.  "  I  am  too  busy  now.  Be  reasonable,  my 
child,  and  run  away.     You  detain  me." 

He  left  her  with  a  slight  impatient  shrug  of  his 
shoulders  and  the -slight  amused  smile  on  his 
lips.     She  heard  him  speak  to  his  friend. 

"  She  was  brought  up  by  one  who  had  renounced 


U2  Little  Saint  Elizabeth 

the  world,"  he  said,  "and  she  has  already  re* 
nouhced  it  herself — pauvre  petite  enfant!  At 
eleven  years  she  wishes  to  devote  her  fortune  to 
the  poor  and  herself  to  the  Church." 

Elizabeth  sank  back  into  the  shadow  of  the 
portieres.  Great  burning  tears  filled  her  eyes  and 
slipped  down  her  cheeks,  falling  upon  her  breast. 

"  He  does  not  care,"  she  said ;  "  he  does  not 
know.  And  I  do  no  one  good — no  one."  And 
she  covered  her  face  with  her  hands  and  stood 
sobbing  all  alone. 

When  she  returned  to  her  room  she  was  so  pale 
that  her  maid  looked  at  her  anxiously,  and  spoke 
of  it  afterwards  to  the  other  servants.  They  were 
all  fond  of  Mademoiselle  Elizabeth.  She  was  al- 
ways kind  and  gentle  to  everybody. 

Nearly  all  the  day  she  sat,  poor  little  saint !  by 
her  window  looking  out  at  the  passers-by  in  the 
snowy  street.  But  she  scarcely  saw  the  people  at 
all,  her  thoughts  were  far  away,  in  the  little  vil- 
lage where  she  had  always  spent  her  Christmas 
before.  Her  Aunt  Clotilde  had  allowed  her  at 
such  times  to  do  so  much.  There  had  not  been 
a  house  she  had  not  carried  some  gift  to ;  not  a 
child  who  had  been  forgotten.  And  the  church 
on  Christmas  morning  had  been  so  beautiful  with 
flowers  from  the  hot- houses  of  the  chdteau.  It 
was  for  the  church,  indeed,  that  the  conserva- 
tories were  chiefly  kept  up.     Mademoiselle  de 


Little  Saint  Elizabeth  113 

Rochemont  would  scarcely  have  permitted  her- 
self such  luxuries. 

But  there  would  not  be  flowers  this  year,  the 
chdteau  was  closed  ;  there  were  no  longer  garden- 
ers at  work,  the  church  would  be  bare  and  cold, 
the  people  would  have  no  gifts,  there  would  be 
no  pleasure  in  the  little  peasants'  faces.  Little 
Saint  Elizabeth  wrung  her  slight  hands  together 
in  her  lap. 

"Oh,"  she  cried,  "what  can  I  do?  And  then 
there  is  the  poor  here — so  many.  And  I  do  noth- 
ing. The  Saints  will  be  angry  ;  they  will  not  in- 
tercede for  me.     I  shall  be  lost !  " 

It  was  not  alone  the  poor  she  had  left  in  her 
village  who  were  a  grief  to  her.  As  she  drove 
through  the  streets  she  saw  now  and  then  hag- 
gard faces ;  and  when  she  had  questioned  a  servant 
who  had  one  day  come  to  her  to  ask  for  charity 
for  a  poor  child  at  the  door,  she  had  found  that 
in  parts  of  this  great,  bright  city  which  she  had 
not  seen,  there  was  said  to  be  cruei  want  and  suf- 
fering, as  in  all  great  cities. 

"And  it  is  so  cold  now,"  she  thought,  "with 
the  snow  on  the  ground." 

The  lamps  in  the  street  were  just  beginning  to 

be  lighted  when  her  Uncle  Bertrand  returned.    It 

appeared  that  he  had  brought  back  with  him  the 

gentleman  with  the  kind  face.     They  were  to  dine 

together,  and  Uncle  Bertrand  desired  that  Mad« 
08 


114  Little  Saint  Elizabeth 

emoiselle  Elizabeth  should  join  them.  Evidently 
the  "journey  out  of  town  had  been  delayed  for  a 
day  at  least.  There  came  also  another  message : 
Monsieur  de  Rochemont  wished  Mademoiselle  to 
send  to  him  by  her  maid  a  certain  box  of  antique" 
ornaments  which  had  been  given  to  her  by  her 
Aunt  Clotilde.  Elizabeth  had  known  less  of  the 
value  of  these  jewels  than  of  their  beauty.  She 
knew  they  were  beautiful,  and  that  they  had  be- 
longed to  her  Aunt  Clotilde  in  the  gay  days  of  her 
triumphs  as  a  beauty  and  a  brilliant  and  adored 
young  woman,  but  it  seemed  that  they  were  also 
very  curious,  and  Monsieur  de  Rochemont  wished 
his  friend  to  see  them.  When  Elizabeth  went 
downstairs  she  found  them  examining  them  to- 
gether. 

"  They  must  be  put  somewhere  for  safe  keep- 
ing," Uncle  Bertrand  was  saying.  "  It  should 
have  been  done  before.     I  will  attend  to  it." 

The  gentleman  with  the  kind  eyes  looked  at 
Elizabeth  with  an  interested  expression  as  she 
came  into  the  room.  Her  slender  little  figure  in 
its  black  velvet  dress,  her  delicate  little  face  with 
its  large  soft  sad  eyes,  the  gentle  gravity  of  her 
manner  made  her  seem  quite  unlike  other  chil- 
dren. 

He  did  not  seem  simply  to  find  her  amusing,  as 
her  Uncle  Bertrand  did.  She  was  always  con- 
scious that  behind  Uncle  Bertrand's  most  serious 


Little  Saint  Elizabeth  115 

expression  there  was  lurking  a  faint  smile  as  he 
watched  her,  but  this  visitor  looked  at  her  in  a 
different  way.  He  was  a  doctor,  she  discovered. 
Dr.  Norris,  her  uncle  called  him,  and  Elizabeth 
wondered  if  perhaps  his  profession  had  not  made 
him  quick  of  sight  and  kind. 

She  felt  that  it  must  be  so  when  she  heard  him 
talk  at  dinner.  She  found  that  he  did  a  great 
deal  of  work  among  the  very  poor — that  he  had 
a  hospital,  where  he  received  little  children  who 
were  ill — who  had  perhaps  met  with  accidents, 
and  could  not  be  taken  care  of  in  their  wretched 
homes.  He  spoke  most  frequently  of  terrible 
quarters,  which  he  called  Five  Points ;  the  great- 
est poverty  and  suffering  was  there.  And  he 
spoke  of  it  with  such  eloquent  sympathy,  that 
even  Uncle  Bertrand  began  to  listen  with  in- 
terest. 

"  Come,"  he  said,  "  you  are  a  rich,  idle  fellow, 
De  Rochemont,  and  we  want  rich,  idle  fellows  to 
come  and  look  into  all  this  and  do  something  for 
us.  You  must  let  me  take  you  with  me  some 
day." 

"  It  would  disturb  me  too  much,  my  good  Nor- 
ris," said  Uncle  Bertrand,  with  a  slight  shudder. 
"  I  should  not  enjoy  my  dinner  after  it." 

"  Then  go  without  your  dinner,"  said  Dr.  Nor- 
ris. "These  people  do.  Y^u  have  too  many 
dinners.     Give  up  one." 


n6  Little  Saint  Elizabeth 

Uncle  Bertrand  shrugged  his  shoulders  and 
smiled, 

"  It  is  Elizabeth  who  fasts,"  he  said.  "  Myself, 
I  prefer  to  dine.  And  yet,  some  day,  I  may  have 
the  fancy  to  visit  this  place  with  you." 

Elizabeth  could  scarcely  have  been  said  to  dine 
this  evening.  She  could  not  eat.  She  sat  with 
her  large,  sad  eyes  fixed  upon  Dr.  Norris'  face  as 
he  talked.  Every  word  he  uttered  sank  deep  into 
her  heart.  The  want  and  suffering  of  which  he 
spoke  were  more  terrible  than  anything  she  had 
ever  heard  of — it  had  been  nothing  like  this  in 
the  village.  Oh  !  no,  no.  As  she  thought  of  it 
there  was  such  a  look  in  her  dark  eyes  as  almost 
startled  Dr.  Norris  several  times  when  he  glanced 
at  her,  but  as  he  did  not  know  the  particulars  of 
her  life  with  her  aunt  and  the  strange  training  she 
had  had,  he  could  not  possibly  have  guessed  what 
was  going  on  in  her  mind,  and  how  much  effect 
his  stories  were  having.  The  beautiful  little  face 
touched  him  very  much,  and  the  pretty  French 
accent  with  which  the  child  spoke  seemed  very 
musical  to  him,  and  added  a  great  charm  to  the 
gentle,  serious  answers  she  made  to  the  remarks 
he  addressed  to  her.  He  could  not  help  seeing 
that  something  had  made  little  Mademoiselle 
Elizabeth  a  pathetic  and  singular  little  creature, 
and  he  continually  wondered  what  it  was. 

"  Do  you  think  she  is  a  happy  child  ?  "  he  asked 


Little  Saint  Elizabeth  1 1} 

Monsieur  de  Rochemont  when  they  were  alone 
together  over  their  cigars  and  wine. 

"  Happy  ?  "  said  Uncle  Bertrand,  with  his  light 
smile.  "  She  has  been  taught,  my  friend,  that  to  be 
nappy  upon  earth  is  a  crime.  That  was  my  good 
sister's  creed.  One  must  devote  one's  self,  r.ot  to 
happiness,  but  entirely  to  good  works.  I  think  I 
have  told  you  that  she,  this  little  one,  desires  to 
give  all  her  fortune  to  the  poor.  Having  heard 
you  this  evening,  she  will  wish  to  bestow  it  upon 
your  Five  Points." 

When,  having  retired  from  the  room  with  a 
grave  and  stately  little  obeisance  to  her  uncle 
and  his  guest,  Elizabeth  had  gone  upstairs,  it  had 
not  been  with  the  intention  of  going  to  bed. 
She  sent  her  maid  away  and  knelt  before  her  altar 
for  a  long  time. 

"  The  Saints  will  tell  me  what  to  do,"  she  said. 
"  The  good  Saints,  who  are  always  gracious,  they 
will  vouchsafe  to  me  some  thought  which  will  in- 
struct me  if  I  remain  long  enough  at  prayer." 

She  remained  in  prayer  a  long  time.  When  at 
last  she  arose  from  her  knees  it  was  long  past 
midnight,  and  she  was  tired  and  weak,  but  the 
thought  had  not  been  given  to  her. 

But  just  as  she  laid  her  head  upon  her  pillow  it 
came.  The  ornaments  given  to  her  by  her  Aunt 
Clotilde  somebody  would  buy  them.  They  were 
her  own — it  would  be  right  to  sell  them '—to  what 


n8  Little  Saint  Elizabeth 

better  use  could  they  be  put  ?  Was  it  not  what 
Aunt  Clotilde  would  have  desired  ?  Had  she  not 
told  her  stories  of  the  good  and  charitable  who 
had  sold  the  clothes  from  their  bodies  that  the 
miserable  might  be  helped?  Yes,  it  was  right. 
These  things  must  be  done.  All  else  was  vain 
and  useless  and  of  the  world.  But  it  would  re- 
quire courage — great  courage.  To  go  out  alone 
to  find  a  place  where  the  people  would  buy  the 
jewels — perhaps  there  might  be  some  who  would 
not  want  them.  And  then  when  they  were  sold 
to  find  this  poor  and  unhappy  quarter  of  which 
her  uncle's  guest  had  spoken,  and  to  give  to  those 
who  needed — all  by  herself.  Ah  !  what  courage  ft 
would  require.  And  then  Uncle  Bertrand,  some 
day  he  would  ask  about  the  ornaments,  and  dis- 
cover all,  and  his  anger  might  be  terrible.  No 
one  had  ever  been  angry  with  her ;  how  could 
she  bear  it.  But  had  not  the  Saints  and  Martyrs 
borne  everything  ?  had  they  not  gone  to  the  stake 
and  the  rack  with  smiles?  She  thought  of  Saint 
Elizabeth  and  the  cruel  Landgrave.  It  could  not 
be  even  so  bad  as  that — but  whatever  the  result 
was  it  must  be  borne. 

So  at  last  she  slept,  and  there  was  upon  her 
gentle  little  face  so  sweetly  sad  a  look  that  when 
her  maid  came  to  waken  her  in  the  morning  she 
stood  by  the  bedside  for  some  moments  looking 
down  upon  her  pityingly. 


Little  Saint  Elizabeth  119 

The  day  seemed  very  long  and  sorrowful  to  the 
poor  child.  It  was  full  of  anxious  thoughts  and 
plannings.  She  was  so  innocent  and  inexpe- 
rienced, so  ignorant  of  all  practical  things.  She 
had  decided  that  it  would  be  best  to  wait  until 
evening  before  going  out,  and  then  to  take  the 
jewels  and  try  to  sell  them  to  some  jeweller.  She 
did  not  understand  the  difficulties  that  would  lie 
in  her  way,  but  she  felt  very  timid. 

Her  maid  had  asked  permission  to  go  out  for 
the  evening  and  Monsieur  de  Rochemont  was  to 
dine  out,  so  that  she  found  it  possible  to  leave  the 
house  without  attracting  attention. 

As  soon  as  the  streets  were  lighted  she  took  the 
case  of  ornaments,  and  going  downstairs  very 
quietly,  let  herself  out.  The  servants  were  din- 
ing,  and  she  was  seen  by  none  of  them. 

When  she  found  herself  in  the  snowy  street  she 
felt  strangely  bewildered.  She  had  never  been 
out  unattended  before,  and  she  knew  nothing  of 
the  great  busy  city.  When  she  turned  into  the 
more  crowded  thoroughfares,  she  saw  several 
times  that  the  passers-by  glanced  at  her  curiously. 
Her  timid  look,  her  foreign  air  and  richly  furred 
dress,  and  the  fact  that  she  was  a  child  and  alone 
at  such  an  hour,  could  not  fail  to  attract  atten- 
tion ;  but  though  she  felt  confused  and  troubled 
she  went  bravely  on.  It  was  some  time  before 
she  found  a  jeweller's  shop,  and  when  she  en- 


120  Little  Saint  Elizabeth 

tered  it  the  men  behind  the  counter  looked  at  her 
in  amazement.  But  she  went  to  the  one  nearest 
to  her  and  laid  the  case  of  jewels  on  the  counter 
before  him. 

" 1  wish,  sne  said,  in  her  soft  low  voice,  ana 
with  the  pretty  accent,  "  I  wish  that  you  should 
buy  these." 

The  man  stared  at  her,  and  at  the  ornaments, 
and  then  at  her  again. 

"  I  beg  pardon,  miss,"  he  said. 

Elizabeth  repeated  her  request. 

"  I  will  speak  to  Mr.  Moetyler,"  he  said,  after  a 
moment  of  hesitation. 

He  went  to  the  other  end  of  the  shop  to  an 
elderly  man  who  sat  behind  a  desk.  After  he  had 
spoken  a  few  words,  the  elderly  man  looked  up 
as  if  surprised ;  then  he  glanced  at  Elizabeth ; 
then,  after  speaking  a  few  more  words,  he  came 
forward. 

"  You  wish  to  sell  these  ?  "  he  said,  looking  at 
the  case  of  jewels  with  a  puzzled  expression. 

"  Yes,"  Elizabeth  answered. 

He  bent  over  the  case  and  took  up  one  orna- 
ment  after  the  other  and  examined  them  closely. 
After  he  had  done  this  he  looked  at  the  little 
girl's  innocent,  trustful  face,  seeming  more  puz« 
zled  than  before. 

"  Are  they  your  own  ?  "  he  inquired. 

"  Yes,  they  are  mine,"  she  replied,  timidly. 


Little  Saint  Elizabeth  121 

*  Do  you  know  how  much  they  are  worth?  " 

"  I  know  that  they  are  worth  much  money," 
said  Elizabeth.     "  I  have  heard  it  said  so." 

"  Do  your  friends  know  that  you  are  going  to 
sell  them  ?  " 

"  No,"  Elizabeth  said,  a  faint  color  rising  in 
her  delicate  face.  "  But  it  is  right  that  I  should 
do  it." 

The  man  spent  a  few  moments  in  examining 
them  again  and,  having  done  so,  spoke  hesitat- 
ingly. 

"  I  am  afraid  we  cannot  buy  them,"  he  said.  "  It 
would  be  impossible,  unless  your  friends  first  gave 
their  permission." 

"  Impossible  !  "  said  Elizabeth,  and  tears  rose  in 
her  eyes,  making  them  look  softer  and  more  wist- 
ful than  ever. 

"  We  could  not  do  it,"  said  the  jeweller.  "  It  is 
out  of  the  question  under  the  circumstances." 

"  Do  you  think,"  faltered  the  poor  little  saint, 
"  do  you  think  that  nobody  will  buy  them  ?  " 

"  I  am  afraid  not,"  was  the  reply.  "  No  re- 
spectable firm  who  would  pay  their  real  value.  If 
you'll  take  my  advice,  young  lady,  you  will  take 
them  home  and  consult  your  friends." 

He  spoke  kindly,  but  Elizabeth  was  over- 
whelmed with  disappointment.  She  did  not 
know  enough  of  the  world  to  understand  tha*  a 
richly  dressed   little   girl    who   offered    valuable 


122  Little  Saint  Elizabeth 

jewels  for  sale  at  night  must  be  a  strange  and  un- 
usual sight. 

When  she  found  herself  on  the  street  again,  her 
long  lashes  were  heavy  with  tears. 

"  If  no  one  will  buy  them,"  she  said,  "  what 
shall  I  do  ?  " 

She  walked  a  long  way — so  long  that  she  was 
very  tired — and  offered  them  at  several  places, 
but  as  she  chanced  to  enter  only  respectable 
shops,  the  same  thing  happened  each  time.  She 
was  looked  at  curiously  and  questioned,  but  no 
one  would  buy. 

"  They  are  mine,"  she  would  say.  "  It  is  right 
that  1  should  sell  them."  But  everyone  stared 
and  seemed  puzzled,  and  in  the  ena  refused. 

At  last,  after  much  wandering,  she  found  her- 
self in  a  poorer  quarter  of  the  city ;  the  streets 
were  narrower  and  dirtier,  and  the  people  began 
to  look  squalid  and  wretchedly  dressed  ;  there 
were  smaller  shops  and  dingy  houses.  She  saw 
unkempt  men  and  women  and  uncared  for  little 
children.  The  poverty  of  the  poor  she  had  seen 
in  her  own  village  seemed  comfort  and  luxury  by 
contrast.  She  had  never  dreamed  of  anything 
like  this.  Now  and  then  she  felt  faint  with  pain 
and  horror.     But  she  went  on. 

"  They  have  no  vineyards,"  she  said  to  hersell 
"  No  trees  and  flowers — it  is  all  dreadful — there  is 
nothing.     They  need  help  more  than  the  others. 


Little  Saint  Elizabeth  123 

To  let  them  suffer  so,  and  not  to  give  them  char< 
ity,  would  be  a  great  crime." 

She  was  so  full  of  grief  and  excitement  that  she 
had  ceased  to  notice  how  everyone  looked  at  her 
— she  saw  only  the  wretchedness,  and  dirt  and 
misery.  She  did  not  know,  poor  child  !  that  she 
was  surrounded  by  danger  —  that  she  was  not 
only  in  the  midst  of  misery,  but  of  dishonesty  and 
crime.  She  had  even  forgotten  her  timidity — 
that  it  was  growing  late,  and  that  she  was  far 
from  home,  and  would  not  know  how  to  return — 
she  did  not  realize  that  she  had  walked  so  far 
that  she  was  almost  exhausted  with  fatigue. 

She  had  brought  with  her  all  the  money  she 
possessed.  If  she  could  not  sell  the  jewels  she 
could,  at  least,  give  something  to  someone  in 
want.  But  she  did  not  know  to  whom  she  must 
give  first.  When  she  had  lived  with  her  Aunt 
Clotilde  it  had  been  their  habit  to  visit  the  peas- 
ants in  their  houses.  Must  she  enter  one  of  these 
houses — these  dreadful  places  with  the  dark  pas- 
sages, from  which  she  heard  many  times  riotous 
voices,  and  even  cries,  issuing  ? 

"  But  those  who  do  good  must  feel  no  fear,"  she 
thought.  "  It  is  only  to  have  courage."  At  length 
something  happened  which  caused  her  to  pause 
before  one  of  those  places.  She  heard  sounds 
of  pitiful  moans  and  sobbing  from  something 
crouched  upon  the  broken  steps.     It  seemed  like 


124 


Little  Saint  Elizabeth 


a  heap  of  rags,  but  as  she  drew  near  she  saw  by 
the  light  of  the  street  lamp  opposite  that  it  was  a 
woman  with  her  head  in  her  knees,  and  a  wretched 
child  on  each  side  of  her.  The  children  were 
shivering  with  cold  and  making  low  cries  as  if 
they  were  frightened. 

Elizabeth  stopped  and  then  ascended  the  steps. 

"  Why  is  it  that  you  cry  ?  "  she  asked  gently  > 
"  Tell  me." 

The  woman  did  not  answer  at  first,  but  when 
Elizabeth  spoke  again  she  lifted  her  head,  and  as 
soon  as  she  saw  the  slender  figure  in  its  velvet  and 
furs,  and  the  pale,  refined  little  face,  she  gave  a 
great  start. 

"  Lord  have  mercy  on  yez !  "  she  said  in  a  hoarse 
voice  which  sounded  almost  terrified.  "  Who  are 
yez,  an'  what  bees  ye  dow'  in  a  place  the  loike  o' 
this?" 

"  I  came,"  said  Elizabeth,  "  to  see  those  who  are 
poor.  I  wish  to  help  them.  I  have  great  sorrow 
for  them.  It  is  right  that  the  rich  should  help 
those  who  want.  Tell  me  why  you  cry,  and  why 
your  little  children  sit  in  the  cold."  Everybody 
had  shown  surprise  to  whom  Elizabeth  had 
spoken  to-night,  but  no  one  had  stared  as  this 
woman  did. 

"  It's  no  place   for  the   loike  o'  yez,"  she  said. 

"  An'  it  black  noight,  an'  men  and  women  wild  in 

he  drink ;  an'   Pat  Harrigan  insoide  bloind   an' 


"WHY  IS  IT  THAT  YOU  CRY?"  SHE  ASKED  GENTLY. 


Little  Saint  Elizabeth  127 

mad  in  liquor,  an'  it's  turned  me  an*  the  children 
out  he  has  to  shlape  in  the  snow — an'  not  the  furst 
toime  either.  An*  it's  starvin'  we  are — starvin'  an' 
no  other,"  and  she  dropped  her  wretched  head 
on  her  knees  and  began  to  moan  again,  and  the 
children  joined  her. 

"  Don't  let  yez  daddy  hear  yez,"  she  said  to 
them.  "  Whisht  now — it's  come  out  an'  kill  yez 
he  will." 

Elizabeth  began  to  feel  tremulous  and  faint. 

"  Is  it  that  they  have  hunger  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Not  a  bite  or  sup  have  they  had  this  day,  nor 
yesterday,"  was  the  answer.  "  The  good  Saints 
have  pity  on  us." 

"  Yes,"  said  Elizabeth,  "  the  good  Saints  have 
always  pity.  I  will  go  and  get  some  food — poor 
little  ones." 

She  had  seen  a  shop  only  a  few  yards  away — 
she  remembered  passing  it.  Before  the  woman 
could  speak  again  she  was  gone. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  I  was  sent  to  them — it  is  the 
answer  to  my  prayer — it  was  not  in  vain  that  I 
asked  so  long." 

When  she  entered  the  shop  the  few  people  who 
were  in  it  stopped  what  they  were  doing  to  stare 
at  her  as  others  had  done — but  she  scarcely  saw 
that  it  was  so. 

"  Give  to  me  a  basket,"  she  said  to  the  owner  of 
the  place.     "  Put  in  it  some  bread  and  wine — some 


528  Little  Saint  Elizabeth 

of  the  things  which  are  ready  to  eat.     It  is  for  a 
poor  woman  and  her  little  ones  who  starve." 

There  was  in  the  shop  among  others  a  red- 
faced  woman  with  a  cunning  look  in  her  eyes. 
She  sidled  out  of  the  place  and  was  waiting  for 
Elizabeth  when  she  came  out. 

"  I'm  starvin'  too,  little  lady,"  she  said.  "  There's 
many  of  us  that  way,  an'  it's  not  often  them  with 
money  care  about  it.  Give  me  something  too," 
in  a  wheedling  voice. 

Elizabeth  looked  up  at  her,  her  pure  ignorant 
eyes  full  of  pity. 

"  I  have  great  sorrows  for  you,"  she  said.  "  Per- 
haps the  poor  woman  will  share  her  food  with 
you." 

"  It's  the  money  I  need,"  said  the  woman. 

"  I  have  none  left,"  answered  Elizabeth.  "  I 
will  come  again." 

"  It's  now  I  want  it,"  the  woman  persisted. 
Then  she  looked  covetously  at  Elizabeth's  velvet 
fur-lined  and  trimmed  cloak.  "  That's  a  pretty 
cloak  you've  on,"  she  said.  "  You've  got  another, 
I  daresay." 

Suddenly  she  gave  the  cloak  a  pull,  but  the 
fastening  did  not  give  way  as  she  had  thought 
it  would. 

"  Is  it  because  you  are  cold  that  you  want  it ?  * 
said  Elizabeth,  in  her  gentle,  innocent  way.  "f 
will  give  it  to  you.     Take  it." 


Little  Saint  Elizabeth  129 

Had  not  the  holy  ones  in  the  legends  given 
their  garments  to  the  poor?  Why  should  she 
not  give  her  cloak  ? 

In  an  instant  it  was  unclasped  and  snatched 
away,  and  the  woman  was  gone.  She  did  not  even 
stay  long  enough  to  give  thanks  for  the  gift,  and 
something  in  her  haste  and  roughness  made  Eliza- 
beth wonder  and  gave  her  a  moment  of  tremor. 

She  made  her  way  back  to  the  place  where  the 
other  woman  and  her  children  had  been  sitting ; 
the  cold  wind  made  her  shiver,  and  the  basket  was 
very  heavy  for  her  slender  arm.  Her  strength 
seemed  to  be  giving  way. 

As  she  turned  the  corner,  a  great,  fierce  gust 
of  wind  swept  round  it,  and  caught  her  breath 
and  made  her  stagger.  She  thought  she  was  go- 
ing to  fall ;  indeed,  she  would  have  fallen  but  that 
one  of  the  tall  men  who  were  passing  put  out  his 
arm  and  caught  her.  He  was  a  well  dressed  man, 
in  a  heavy  overcoat ;  he  had  gloves  on.  Eliza- 
beth spoke  in  a  faint  tone. 

"  I  thank  you,"  she  began,  when  the  second  man 
uttered  a  wild  exclamation  and  sprang  forward. 

"  Elizabeth  !  "  he  said,  "  Elizabeth  !  " 

Elizabeth  looked  up  and  uttered  a  cry  herself. 
It  was  her  Uncle  Bertrand  who  stood  before  her, 
and  his  companion,  who  had  saved  her  from  fall- 
ing, was  Dr.  Norris. 

For  a  moment  it  seemed  as  if  they  were  almost 


l$0  Little  Saint  Elizabeth 

struck  dumb  with  horror ;  and  then  her  Uncle 
Bertrand  seized  her  by  the  arm  in  such  agitation 
that  he  scarcely  seemed  himself — not  the  light, 
satirical,  jesting  Uncle  Bertrand  she  had  known 
at  all. 

"  What  does  it  mean  ?  "  he  cried.  "  What  are 
you  doing  here,  in  this  horrible  place  alone  ?  Do 
you  know  where  it  is  you  have  come  ?  What 
have  you  in  your  basket  ?     Explain !  explain  ! " 

The  moment  of  trial  had  come,  and  it  seemed 
even  more  terrible  than  the  poor  child  had  imag- 
ined. The  long  strain  and  exertion  had  been  too 
much  for  her  delicate  body.  She  felt  that  she 
could  bear  no  more ;  the  cold  seemed  to  have 
struck  to  her  very  heart.  She  looked  up  at 
Monsieur  de  Rochemont's  pale,  excited  face,  and 
trembled  from  head  to  foot.  A  strange  thought 
flashed  into  her  mind.  Saint  Elizabeth,  of  Thurin- 
gia  —  the  cruel  Landgrave.  Perhaps  the  Saints 
would  help  her,  too,  since  she  was  trying  to  do 
their  bidding.     Surely,  surely  it  must  be  so  ! 

"Speak!"  repeated  Monsieur  de  Rochemont. 
s'  Why  is  this  ?  The  basket — what  have  you  in 
it?" 

"  Roses,"  said  Elizabeth,  "  Roses."  And  then 
her  strength  deserted  her — she  fell  upon  her  knees 
in  the  snow — the  basket  slipped  from  her  arm, 
and  the  first  thing  which  fell  from  it  was — no,  not 
roses, — there  had  been  no  miracle  wrought — not 


HER  STRENGTH  DESERTED  HER— SHE  FELL  UPON  HER  KNEES  IN  THE  SNOW. 


Little  Saint  Elizabeth  133 

roses,  but  the  case  of  jewels  which  she  had  laid 
on  the  top  of  the  other  things  that  it  might  b© 
the  more  easily  carried. 

"Roses!"  cried  Uncle  Bertrand.  "Is  it  that 
the  child  is  mad  ?  They  are  the  jewels  of  my  sis- 
ter Clotilde." 

Elizabeth  clasped  her  hands  and  leaned  towards 
Dr.  Norris,  the  tears  streaming  from  her  uplifted 
eyes. 

"  Ah !  monsieur,"  she  sobbed,  "  you  will  under- 
stand. It  was  for  the  poor — they  suffer  so  much. 
If  we  do  not  help  them  our  souls  will  be  lost.  I 
did   not   mean  to  speak  falsely.     I   thought  the 

Saints — the  Saints "     But  her  sobs  filled  her 

throat,  and  she  could  not  finish.  Dr.  Norris 
stopped,  and  took  her  in  his  strong  arms  as  if  she 
had  been  a  baby. 

"  Quick ! "  he  said,  imperatively ;  "  we  must  re- 
turn to  the  carriage,  De  Rochemont.  This  is  a 
serious  matter." 

Elizabeth  clung  to  him  with  trembling  hands. 

"  But  the  poor  woman  who  starves  ?  "  she  cried. 
"  The  little  children — they  sit  up  on  the  step  quite 
neat  -the  food  was  for  them !  I  pray  you  give  it 
to  th^iv.." 

"  Yes,  they  shall  have  it,"  said  the  Doctor. 
"  Take  the  basket,  De  Rochemont — only  a  few 
doors  below."  And  it  appeared  that  there  was 
something  in  his  voice  which  seemed  to  render 


134  Little  Saint  Elizabeth 

obedience  necessary,  for  Monsieur  de  Rochemont 
actually  did  as  he  was  told. 

For  a  moment  Dr.  Norris  put  Elizabeth  on  her 
feet  again,  but  it  was  only  while  he  removed  his 
overcoat  and  wrapped  it  about  her  slight  shiver, 
ing  body. 

"  You  are  chilled  through,  poor  child,"  he  said  ; 
"  and  you  are  not  strong  enough  to  walk  just 
now.     You  must  let  me  carry  you." 

It  was  true  that  a  sudden  faintness  had  come 
upon  her,  and  she  could  not  restrain  the  shudder 
which  shook  her.  It  still  shook  her  when  she 
was  placed  in  the  carriage  which  the  two  gentle- 
men had  thought  it  wiser  to  leave  in  one  of  the 
more  respectable  streets  when  they  went  to  ex- 
plore the  worse  ones  together. 

"  What  might  not  have  occurred  if  we  had  not 
arrived  at  that  instant ! "  said  Uncle  Bertrand 
when  he  got  into  the  carriage.  "  As  it  is  who 
knows  what  illness " 

"  It  will  be  better  to  say  as  little  as  possible 
now,"  said  Dr.  Norris. 

u  It  was  for  the  poor,"  said  Elizabeth,  trembling. 
"  I  had  prayed  to  the  Saints  to  tell  me  what  was 
best.  I  thought  I  must  go.  I  did  not  mean  to  do 
wrong.     It  was  for  the  poor." 

And  while  her  Uncle  Bertrand  regarded  her 
with  a  strangely  agitated  look,  and  Dr.  Norris 
held   her   hand   between   his    strong    and  warm 


Little  Saint  Elizabeth  135 

ones,  the  tears  rolled  down  her  pure,  pale  little 
face. 

She  did  not  know  until  some  time  after  what 
danger  she  had  been  in,  that  the  part  of  the  city 
into  which  she  had  wandered  was  the  lowest  and 
worst,  and  was  in  some  quarters  the  home  ot 
thieves  and  criminals  of  every  class.  As  her  Un~ 
cle  Bertrand  had  said,  it  was  impossible  to  say 
what  terrible  thing  might  have  happened  if  they 
had  not  met  her  so  soon.  It  was  Dr.  Norris  who 
explained  it  all  to  her  as  gently  and  kindly  as  was 
possible.  She  had  always  been  fragile,  and  she 
had  caught  a  severe  cold  which  caused  her  an  ill- 
ness of  some  weeks.  It  was  Dr.  Norris  who  took 
care  of  her,  and  it  was  not  long  before  her  timid- 
ity was  forgotten  in  her  tender  and  trusting  affec- 
tion for  him.  She  learned  to  watch  for  his  com- 
ing, and  to  feel  that  she  was  no  longer  lonely.  It 
was  through  him  that  her  uncle  permitted  her  to 
send  to  the  curt  a  sum  of  money  large  enough  to 
do  all  that  was  necessary.  It  was  through  him 
that  the  poor  woman  and  her  children  were 
clothed  and  fed  and  protected.  When  she  was 
well  enough,  he  had  promised  that  she  should 
help  him  among  his  own  poor.  And  through  him 
— though  she  lost  none  of  her  sweet  sympathy  for 
those  who  suffered — she  learned  to  live  a  more 
natural  and  child-like  life,  and  to  find  that  there 
were  innocent,  natural  pleasures  to  be  enjoyed  in 


136  Little  Saint  Elizabeth 

thq  world.  In  time  she  even  ceased  to  be  afraid 
of  her  Uncle  Bertrand,  and  to  be  quite  happy  in 
the  great  beautiful  house.  And  as  for  Uncle  Ber- 
trand himself,  he  became  very  fond  of  her,  and 
sometimes  even  helped  her  to  dispense  her  char- 
ities. He  had  a  light,  gay  nature,  but  he  was 
kind  at  heart,  and  always  disliked  to  see  or  think 
of  suffering.  Now  and  then  he  would  give  more 
lavishly  than  wisely,  and  then  he  would  say,  with 
his  habitual  graceful  shrug  of  the  shoulders — 

"Yes,  it  appears  I  am  not  discreet.  Finally,  I 
think  I  must  leave  my  charities  to  you,  my  good 
Norris — to  you  and  Little  Saint  Elizabeth." 


THE 

STORY  OF  PRINCE  FAIRYFOOI 


PREFATORY  NOTE 

"  Thb  Story  of  Prince  Fairyfoot  "  was  originally  intended  to 
be  the  first  of  a  series,  under  the  general  title  of  "  Stories  from  the  Lost 
Fairy-Book,  Re-told  by  the  Child  Who  Read  Them,"  concerning  which 
Mrs.  Burnett  relates : 

"  When  I  was  a  child  of  six  or  seven,  I  had  given  to  me  a  book  of  fairy-stories,  of 
which  I  was  very  fond.  Before  it  had  been  in  my  possession  many  months,  it  disap- 
peared, and,  though  since  then  I  have  tried  repeatedly,  both  in  England  and 
America,  to  find  a  copy  of  it,  I  have  never  been  able  to  do  so.  I  asked  a  friend  in 
the  Congressional  Library  at  Washington — a  man  whose  knowledge  of  books  is  al- 
most unlimited — to  try  to  learn  something  about  it  for  me.  But  even  he  could  find 
no  trace  of  it ;  and  so  we  concluded  it  must  have  been  out  of  print  some  time.  I  al- 
ways remembered  the  impression  the  stories  had  made  on  me,  and,  though  most  of 
them  had  become  very  faint  recollections,  I  frequently  told  them  to  children,  with 
additions  of  my  own.  The  story  of  Fairyfoot  I  had  promised  to  tell  a  little  girl ;  and, 
in  accordance  with  the  promise,  I  developed  the  outline  I  remembered,  introduced 
.iew  characters  and  conversation,  wrote  it  upon  note  paper,  inclosed  it  in  a  decorated 
satin  cover,  and  sent  it  to  her.  In  the  first  place,  it  was  re-written  merely  for  her, 
with  no  intention  of  publication  ;  but  she  was  so  delighted  with  it,  and  read  and  re- 
read it  so  untiringly,  that  it  occurred  to  me  other  children  might  like  to  hear  it  also. 
So  I  made  the  plan  of  developing  and  re-writing  the  other  stories  in  like  manner,  and 
having  them  published  under  the  title  of  '  Stories  from  the  Lost  Fairy-Book,  Re-told 
by  the  Child  Who  Read  Them.'" 

The  little  volume  in  question  Mrs.  Burnett  afterwards  discovered  to 
be  entitled  "  Granny's  Wonderful  Chair  and  the  Tales  it  Told." 


THE 

STORY  OF    PRINCE  FAIRYFOOT 

PART  I 

ONCE  upon  a  time,  in  the  days  of  the  fairies, 
there  was  in  the  far  west  country  a  kingdom 
which  was  called  by  the  name  of  Stumpinghame. 
It  was  a  rather  curious  country  in  several  ways. 
In  the  first  place,  the  people  who  lived  there 
thought  that  Stumpinghame  was  all  the  world; 
they  thought  there  was  no  world  at  all  outside 
Stumpinghame.  And  they  thought  that  the  peo- 
ple of  Stumpinghame  knew  everything  that  could 
possibly  be  known,  and  that  what  they  did  not 
know  was  of  no  consequence  at  all. 

One  idea  common  in  Stumpinghame  was  really 
very  unusual  indeed.  It  was  a  peculiar  taste  in 
the  matter  of  feet.  In  Stumpinghame,  the  larger 
a  person's  feet  were,  the  more  beautiful  and  ele- 
gant he  or  she  was  considered;  and  the  more 
aristocratic  and  nobly  born  a  man  was,  the  more 
immense  were  his  feet.  Only  the  very  lowest 
and  most  vulgar  persons  were  ever  known  to 


140       The  Story  of  Prince  Fairy  foot 

have  small  feet.  The  King's  feet  were  simply 
huge ;  so  were  the  Queen's;  so  were  those  of  the 
young  princes  and  princesses.  It  had  never  oc- 
curred to  anyone  that  a  member  of  such  a  royal 
family  could  possibly  disgrace  himself  by  being 
born  with  small  feet.  Well,  you  may  imagine, 
then,  what  a  terrible  and  humiliating  state  of  af- 
fairs arose  when  there  was  born  into  that  royal 
family  a  little  son,  a  prince,  whose  feet  were  so 
very  small  and  slender  and  delicate  that  they 
would  have  been  considered  small  even  in  other 
places  than  Stumpinghame.  Grief  and  confusion 
seized  the  entire  nation.  The  Queen  fainted  six 
times  a  day  ;  the  King  had  black  rosettes  fastened 
upon  his  crown;  all  the  flags  were  at  half-mast; 
and  the  court  went  into  the  deepest  mourning. 
There  had  been  born  to  Stumpinghame  a  royal 
prince  with  small  feet,  and  nobody  knew  how  the 
country  could  survive  it ! 

Yet  the  disgraceful  little  prince  survived  it,  and 
did  not  seem  to  mind  at  all.  He  was  the  prettiest 
and  best  tempered  baby  the  royal  nurse  had  ever 
seen.  But  for  his  small  feet,  he  would  have  been 
the  flower  of  the  family.  The  royal  nurse  said  to 
herself,  and  privately  told  his  little  royal  high- 
ness's  chief  bottle-washer  that  she  "never  see  a 
hinfant  as  took  notice  so,  and  sneezed  as  hintelli- 
gent."  But,  of  course,  the  King  and  Queen  could 
see  nothing  but  his  little  feet,  and  very  soon  they 


The  Story  of  Prince  Fairy  foot       141 

made  up  their  minds  to  send  him  away.  So  one 
day  they  had  him  bundled  up  and  carried  where 
they  thought  he  might  be  quite  forgotten.  They 
sent  him  to  the  hut  of  a  swineherd  who  lived 
deep,  deep  in  a  great  forest  which  seemed  to  end 
nowhere. 

They  gave  the  swineherd  some  money,  and 
some  clothes  for  Fairyfoot,  and  told  him,  that  if 
he  would  take  care  of  the  child,  they  would  send 
money  and  clothes  every  year.  As  for  them- 
selves, they  only  wished  to  be  sure  of  never  see- 
ing Fairyfoot  again. 

This  pleased  the  swineherd  well  enough.  He 
was  poor,  and  he  had  a  wife  and  ten  children,  and 
hundreds  of  swine  to  take  care  of,  and  he  knew 
he  could  use  the  little  Prince's  money  and  clothes 
for  his  own  family,  and  no  one  would  find  it  out. 
So  he  let  his  wife  take  the  little  fellow,  and  as  soon 
as  the  King's  messengers  had  gone,  the  woman  took 
the  royal  clothes  off  the  Prince  and  put  on  him  a 
coarse  little  nightgown,  and  gave  all  his  things  to 
her  own  children.  But  <;he  baby  Prince  did  not 
seem  to  mind  that — he  diii  not  seem  to  mind  any. 
thing,  even  though  he  had  no  name  but  Prince 
Fairyfoot,  which  had  been  given  him  in  contempt 
by  the  disgusted  courtiers.  He  grew  prettier  and 
prettier  every  day,  and  long  before  the  time  when 
other  children  begin  to  walk,  he  could  run  about 
on  his  fairy  feet. 


[42        The  Story  of  Prince  Fairyfoot 

The  swineherd  and  his  wife  did  not  like  him  at 
all ;  in  fact,  they  disliked  him  because  he  was  so 
much  prettier  and  so  much  brighter  than  their 
own  clumsy  children.  And  the  children  did 
not  like  him,  because  they  were  ill  natured  and 
only  liked  themselves. 

So  as  he  grew  older  year  by  year,  the  poor 
little  Prince  was  more  and  more  lonely.  He  had 
no  one  to  play  with,  and  was  obliged  to  be  always 
by  himself.  He  dressed  only  in  the  coarsest  and 
roughest  clothes ;  he  seldom  had  enough  to  eat, 
and  he  slept  on  straw  in  a  loft  under  the  roof  of 
the  swineherd's  hut.  But  all  this  did  not  prevent 
his  being  strong  and  rosy  and  active.  He  was  as 
fleet  as  the  wind,  and  he  had  a  voice  as  sweet  as 
a  bird's  ;  he  had  lovely  sparkling  eyes,  and  bright 
golden  hair;  and  he  had  so  kind  a  heart  that  he 
would  not  have  done  a  wrong  or  cruel  thing  for 
the  world.  As  soon  as  he  was  big  enough,  the 
swineherd  made  him  go  out  into  the  forest  every 
day  to  take  care  of  the  swine.  He  was  obliged 
to  keep  them  together  in  one  place,  and  if  any  of 
them  ran  away  into  the  forest,  Prince  Fairyfoot 
was  beaten.  And  as  the  swine  were  very  wild 
and  unruly,  he  was  very  often  beaten,  because  it 
was  almost  impossible  to  keep  them  from  wander- 
ing off;  and  when  they  ran  away,  they  ran  so 
fast,  and  through  places  so  tangled,  that  it  was 
almost  impossible  to  follow  them. 


The  Story  of  Prince  Fairy  foot       143 

The  forest  in  which  he  had  to  spend  the  long 
days  was  a  very  beautiful  one,  however,  and  he 
could  take  pleasure  in  that.  It  was  a  forest  so 
great  that  it  was  like  a  world  in  itself.  There 
were  in  it  strange,  splendid  trees,  the  branches  of 
which  interlocked  overhead,  and  when  their  many 
leaves  moved  and  rustled,  it  seemed  as  if  they 
were  whispering  secrets.  There  were  bright, 
swift,  strange  birds,  that  flew  about  in  the  deep 
golden  sunshine,  and  when  they  rested  on  the 
boughs,  they,  too,  seemed  telling  one  another 
secrets.  There  was  a  bright,  clear  brook,  with 
water  as  sparkling  and  pure  as  crystal,  and  with 
shining  shells  and  pebbles  of  all  colours  lying  in 
the  gold  and  silver  sand  at  the  bottom.  Prince 
Fairyfoot  always  thought  the  brook  knew  the 
forest's  secret  also,  and  sang  it  softly  to  the 
flowers  as  it  ran  along.  And  as  for  the  flowers, 
they  were  beautiful ;  they  grew  as  thickly  as  if 
they  had  been  a  carpet,  and  under  them  was  an- 
other carpet  of  lovely  green  moss.  The  trees 
and  the  birds,  and  the  brook  and  the  flowers 
were  Prince  Fairyfoot's  friends.  He  loved  them, 
and  never  was  very  lonely  when  he  was  with 
them  ;  and  if  his  swine  had  not  run  away  so  often4 
and  if  the  swineherd  had  not  beaten  him  so  much, 
sometimes — indeed,  nearly  all  summer — he  would 
have  been  almost  happy.  He  used  to  lie  on  the 
fragrant  carpet  of  flowers  and  moss  and  listen  to 


144        The  Story  of  Prince  Fairy  foot 

the  soft  sound  of  the  running  water,  and  to  the 
whispering  of  the  waving  leaves,  and  to  the  songs 
of  the  birds ;  and  he  would  wonder  what  they 
were  saying  to  one  another,  and  if  it  were  true, 
as  the  swineherd's  children  said,  that  the  great 
forest  was  full  of  fairies.  And  then  he  would  pre- 
tend it  was  true,  and  would  tell  himself  stories 
about  them,  and  make  believe  they  were  his 
friends,  and  that  they  came  to  talk  to  him  and  let 
him  love  them.  He  wanted  to  love  something  or 
somebody,  and  he  had  nothing  to  love — not  even 
a  little  dog. 

One  day  he  was  resting  under  a  great  green 
tree,  feeling  really  quite  happy  because  every- 
thing was  so  beautiful.  He  had  even  made  a 
little  song  to  chime  in  with  the  brook's,  and  he 
was  singing  it  softly  and  sweetly,  when  suddenly, 
as  he  lifted  his  curly,  golden  head  to  look  about 
him,  he  saw  that  all  his  swine  were  gone.  He 
sprang  to  his  feet,  feeling  very  much  frightened, 
and  he  whistled  and  called,  but  he  heard  nothing. 
He  could  not  imagine  how  they  had  all  dis- 
appeared so  quietly,  without  making  any  sound  ; 
but  not  one  of  them  was  anywhere  to  be  seen. 
Then  his  poor  little  heart  began  to  beat  fast  with 
trouble  and  anxiety.  He  ran  here  and  there  ;  he 
looked  through  the  bushes  and  under  the  trees ; 
he  ran,  and  ran,  and  ran,  and  called  and  whistled, 
and  searched  ;  but  nowhere— nowhere  was  one  of 


The  Story  of  Prince  Fairy  foot       145 

those  swine  to  be  found  !  He  searched  for  them 
for  hours,  going  deeper  and  deeper  into  the  forest 
than  he  had  ever  been  before.  He  saw  strange 
trees  and  strange  flowers,  and  heard  strange 
sounds  :  and  at  last  the  sun  began  to  go  down,  and 
he  knew  he  would  soon  be  left  in  the  dark.  His 
little  feet  and  legs  were  scratched  with  brambles, 
and  were  so  tired  that  they  would  scarcely  carry 
him  ;  but  he  dared  not  go  back  to  the  swineherd's 
hut  without  finding  the  swine.  The  only  com- 
fort he  had  on  all  the  long  way  was  that  the  little 
brook  had  run  by  his  side,  and  sung  its  song  to 
him  ;  and  sometimes  he  had  stopped  and  bathed 
his  hot  face  in  it,  and  had  said,  "  Oh,  little  brook ! 
you  are  so  kind  to  me !  You  are  my  friend,  I 
know.     I  would  be  so  lonely  without  you  !  " 

When  at  last  the  sun  did  go  down,  Prince  Fairy- 
foot  had  wandered  so  far  that  he  did  not  know 
where  he  was,  and  he  was  so  tired  that  he  threw 
himself  down  by  the  brook,  and  hid  his  face  in 
the  flowery  moss,  and  said,  "  Oh,  little  brook  !  1 
am  so  tired  I  can  go  no  further ;  and  I  can  never 
find  them ! " 

While  he  was  lying  there  in  despair,  he  heard 
a  sound  in  the  air  above  him,  and  looked  up  to 
see  what  it  was.  It  sounded  like  a  little  bird  in 
some  trouble.  And,  surely  enough,  there  was  a 
huge  hawk  darting  after  a  plump  little  brown 
bird  with  a  red  breast.     The  little  bird  was  utter- 


146        The  Story  of  Prince  Fairy  foot 

ing-sharp  frightened  cries,  and  Prince  Fairyfoot 
felt  so  sorry  for  it  that  he  sprang  up  and  tried  to 
drive  the  hawk  away.  The  little  bird  saw  him  at 
once,  and  straightway  flew  to  him,  and  Fairyfoot 
covered  it  with  his  cap.  And  then  the  hawk  flew 
away  in  a  great  rage. 

When  the  hawk  was  gone,  Fairyfoot  sat  down 
again  and  lifted  his  cap,  expecting,  of  course,  to 
see  the  brown  bird  with  the  red  breast.  But,  in- 
stead of  a  bird,  out  stepped  a  little  man,  not  much 
higher  than  your  little  finger — a  plump  little  man 
in  a  brown  suit  with  a  bright  red  vest,  and  with  a 
cocked  hat  on. 

"  Why,"  exclaimed  Fairyfoot,  "  I'm  surprised !  " 

"  So  am  I,"  said  the  little  man,  cheerfully.  "  I 
never  was  more  surprised  in  my  life,  except  when 
my  great  -  aunt's  grandmother  got  into  such  a 
rage,  and  changed  me  into  a  robin-redbreast.  I 
tell  you,  that  surprised  me !  " 

"  I  should  think  it  might,"  said  Fairyfoot. 
"  Why  did  she  do  it  ?  " 

"  Mad,"  answered  the  little  man  —  "  that  was 
what  was  the  matter  with  her.  She  was  always 
losing  her  temper  like  that,  and  turning  people 
into  awkward  things,  and  then  being  sorry  for  it, 
•md  not  being  able  to  change  them  back  again. 
If  you  are  a  fairy,  you  have  to  be  careful.  If 
you'll  believe  me,  that  woman  once  turned  her 
second-cousin's  sister-in-law  into  a  mushroom,  and 


/'" 


"W3Y,"  EXCLAIMED  FAIRYFOOT,  "I'M  SURPRISED  J 


The  Story  of  Prince  Fairyfoot       14.Q 

somebody  picked  her,  and  she  was  made  into  cat 
sup,  which  is  a  thing  no  man  likes  to  have  hap 
pen  in  his  family ! " 

"  Of  course  not,"  said  Fairyfoot,  politely. 

"  The  difficulty  is,"  said  the  little  man,  "  that 
some  fairies  don't  graduate.  They  learn  to  turn 
people  into  things,  but  they  don't  learn  how  to 
unturn  them  ;  and  then,  when  they  get  mad  in 
their  families  —  you  know  how  it  is  about  getting 
mad  in  families  —  there  is  confusion.  Yes,  seri- 
ously, confusion  arises.  It  arises.  That  was  the 
way  with  my  great-aunt's  grandmother.  She  was 
not  a  cultivated  old  person,  and  she  did  not  know 
how  to  unturn  people,  and  now  you  see  the  re. 
suit.  Quite  accidentally  I  trod  on  her  favorite 
corn  ;  she  got  mad  and  changed  me  into  a  robin, 
and  regretted  it  ever  afterward.  I  could  only 
become  myself  again  by  a  kind-hearted  person's 
saving  me  from  a  great  danger.  You  are  that 
person.     Give  me  your  hand." 

Fairyfoot  held  out  his  hand.  The  little  man 
looked  at  it. 

"  On  second  thought,"  he  said,  "  I  can't  shake 
it — it's  too  large.     I'll  sit  on  it,  and  talk  to  you." 

With  these  words,  he  hopped  upon  Fairyfoot's 
hand,  and  sat  down,  smiling  and  clasping  his  own 
hands  about  his  tiny  knees. 

"  I  declare,  it's  delightful  not  to  be  a  robin,"  he 
said.     "  Had  to  go  about  picking  up  worms,  you 


15°       The  Story  of  Prince  Fairy  foot 

kndw.  Disgusting  business.  I  always  did  hate 
worms.  I  never  ate  them  myself — I  drew  the 
^ine  there  ;  but  I  had  to  get  them  for  my  family.' 

Suddenly  he  began  to  giggle,  and  to  hug  hif 
knees  up  tight. 

"  Do  you  wish  to  know  what  I'm  laughing  at?s 
he  asked  Fairyfoot. 

"  Yes,"  Fairyfoot  answered. 

The  little  man  giggled  more  than  ever. 

"I'm  thinking  about  my  wife,"  he  said — "th 
one  I  had  when  I  was  a  robin.  A  nice  rage  she'L 
fc>e  in  when  I  don't  come  home  to-night !  She'll 
have  to  hustle  around  and  pick  up  worms  for  her- 
self, and  for  the  children  too,  and  it  serves  her 
right.  She  had  a  temper  that  would  embitter  the 
life  of  a  crow,  much  more  a  simple  robin.  I  wore 
myself  to  skin  and  bone  taking  care  of  her  and 
her  brood,  and  how  I  did  hate  'em  ! — bare,  squawk- 
ing things,  always  with  their  throats  gaping 
open.  They  seemed  to  think  a  parent's  sole  duty 
was  to  bring  worms  for  them." 

"  It  must  have  been  unpleasant,'5  said  Fairy- 
foot. 

"  It  was  more  than  that,"  said  the  little  man  ; 
"  it  used  to  make  my  feathers  stand  on  end. 
There  was  the  nest,  too  !  Fancy  being  changed 
into  a  robin,  and  being  obliged  to  build  a  nest  at 
a  moment's  notice !  I  never  felt  so  ridiculous  in 
my   life.     How  was   I   to  know  how  to  build  a 


The  Story  of  Prince  Fairy  foot       151 

nest !  And  the  worst  of  it  was  the  way  she  went 
on  about  it" 

"  She !  "  said  Fairyfoot. 

"Oh,  her,  you  know,"  replied  the  little  man, 
ungrammatically,  "my  wife.  She'd  always  been 
a  robin,  and  she  knew  how  to  build  a  nest ;  she 
liked  to  order  me  about,  too — she  was  one  of  that 
kind.  But,  of  course,  I  wasn't  going  to  own  that 
I  didn't  know  anything  about  nest-building.  I 
could  never  have  done  anything  with  her  in  the 
world  if  I'd  let  her  think  she  knew  as  much  as  1 
did.  So  I  just  put  things  together  in  a  way  of  my 
own,  and  built  a  nest  that  would  have  made  you 
weep !  The  bottom  fell  out  of  it  the  first  night. 
It  nearly  killed  me." 

"  Did  you  fall  out,  too?"  inquired  Fairyfoot 

"  Oh,  no,"  answered  the  little  man.  "  I  meant 
that  it  nearly  killed  me  to  think  the  eggs  weren't 
in  it  at  the  time." 

"What  did  you  do  about  the  nest?"  asked 
Fairyfoot. 

The  little  man  winked  in  the  most  improper 
manner. 

"  Do  ?  "  he  said.  "  I  got  mad,  of  course,  and 
told  her  that  if  she  hadn't  interfered,  it  wouldn't 
have  happened  ;  said  it  was  exactly  like  a  hen  to 
fly  around  giving  advice  and  unsettling  one's 
mind,  and  then  complain  if  things  weren't  right. 
I  told  her  she  might  build  the  nest  nerself,  if  she 


152       The  Story  of  Prince  Fairy  foot 

thought  she  could  build  a  better  one.  She  did  it, 
too  ! "     And  he  winked  again. 

"  Was  it  a  better  one  ?  "  asked  Fairyfoot. 

The  little  man  actually  winked  a  third  time. 
"  It  may  surprise  you  to  hear  that  it  was,"  he  re- 
plied ;  "  but  it  didn't  surprise  me.  By-the-by,'!  he 
added,  with  startling  suddenness,  "  what's  your 
name,  and  what's  the  matter  with  you?  " 

"  My  name  is  Prince  Fairyfoot,"  said  the  boy, 
"  and  I  have  lost  my  master's  swine." 

"  My  name,"  said  the  little  man,  "  is  Robin 
Goodfellow,  and  I'll  find  them  for  you." 

He  had  a  tiny  scarlet  silk  pouch  hanging  at  his 
girdle,  and  he  put  his  hand  into  it  and  drew  forth 
the  smallest  golden  whistle  you  ever  saw. 

"  Blow  that,"  he  said,  giving  it  to  Fairyfoot, 
"  and  take  care  that  you  don't  swallow  it.  You 
are  such  a  tremendous  creature  !  " 

Fairyfoot  took  the  whistle  and  put  it  very  deli- 
cately to  his  lips.  He  blew,  and  there  came  from 
it  a  high,  clear  sound  that  seemed  to  pierce  the 
deepest  depths  of  the  forest. 

"  Blow  again,"  commanded  Robin  Goodfellow. 

Again  Prince  Fairyfoot  blew,  and  again  the 
pure  clear  sound  rang  through  the  trees,  and  the 
next  instant  he  heard  a  loud  rushing  and  tramp- 
ing and  squeaking  and  grunting,  and  all  the  great 
drove  of  swine  came  tearing  through  the  bushes 
and  formed  themselves  into   a  circle  and  stood 


The  Story  of  Prince  Fairy  foot       153 

staring  at  him  as  if  waiting  to  be  told  what  to  do 
next. 

"  Oh,  Robin  Goodfellow,  Robin  Goodfellow  J  " 
cried  Fairyfoot,  "  how  grateful  I  am  to  you  !  " 

"  Not  as  grateful  as  I  am  to  you,"  said  Robin 
Goodfellow.  "  But  for  you  I  should  be  disturb- 
ing that  hawk's  digestion  at  the  present  moment, 
instead  of  which,  here  I  am,  a  respectable  fairy 
once  more,  and  my  late  wife  (though  I  ought  not 
to  call  her  that,  for  goodness  knows  she  was  early 
enough  hustling  me  out  of  my  nest  before  day- 
break, with  the  unpleasant  proverb  about  the 
early  bird  catching  the  worm  ! ) — I  suppose  I 
should  say  my  early  wife  —  is  at  this  juncture  a 
widow.     Now,  where  do  you  live  ?  " 

Fairyfoot  told  him,  and  told  him  also  about  the 
swineherd,  and  how  it  happened  that,  though  he 
was  a  prince,  he  had  to  herd  swine  and  live  in  the 
forest. 

"  Well,  well,"  said  Robin  Goodfellow,  "  that  is 
a  disagreeable  state  of  affairs.  Perhaps  I  can 
make  it  rather  easier  for  you.  You  see  that  is  a 
fairy  whistle." 

"  I  thought  so,"  said  Fairyfoot. 

"Well,"  continued  Robin  Goodfellow,  "you 
can  always  call  your  swine  with  it,  so  you  will 
never  be  beaten  again.  Now,  are  you  ever 
lonely?" 

"Sometimes    I   am   very    lonely   indeed,"   an- 


154       Tfo  Story  of  Prince  Fairy  foot 

swered  the  Prince.  "  No  one  cares  for  me,  though 
I  think  the  brook  is  sometimes  sorry,  and  tries  to 
tell  me  things." 

"  Of  course,"  said  Robin.  "  They  all  like  you. 
I've  heard  them  say  so." 

"  Oh,  have  you  ?  "  cried  Fairyfoot,  joyfully. 

"  Yes ;  you  never  throw  stones  at  the  birds,  or 
break  the  branches  of  the  trees,  or  trample  on  the 
flowers  when  you  can  help  it." 

"  The  birds  sing  to  me,"  said  Fairyfoot,  "  and 
the  trees  seem  to  beckon  to  me  and  whisper ;  and 
when  I  am  very  lonely,  I  lie  down  in  the  grass 
and  look  into  the  eyes  of  the  flowers  and  talk 
to  them.  I  would  not  hurt  one  of  them  for  all 
the  world  !  " 

"  Humph  ! "  said  Robin,  "  you  are  a  rather  good 
little  fellow.     Would  you  like  to  go  to  a  party  ?  " 

"  A  party  !  "  said  Fairyfoot.     "  What  is  that  ?  " 

"  This  sort  of  thing,"  said  Robin ;  and  he 
jumped  up  and  began  to  dance  around  and  to  kick 
up  his  heels  gaily  in  the  palm  of  Fairyfoot's  hand. 
"  Wine,  you  know,  and  cake,  and  all  sorts  of  fun. 
It  begins  at  twelve  to-night,  in  a  place  the  fairies 
know  of,  and  it  lasts  until  just  two  minutes  and 
three  seconds  and  a  half  before  daylight.  Would 
you  like  to  come  ?  " 

"  Oh,"  cried  Fairyfoot,  "  I  should  be  so  happy 
if  I  might !  " 

"  Well,  you  may,"  said  Robin ;  "  I'll  take  you 


The  Story  of  Prince  Fairy  foot       155 

They'll  be  delighted  to  see  any  friend  of  mine, 
I'm  a  great  favourite  ;  of  course,  you  can  easily 
imagine  that.  It  was  a  great  blow  to  them  when 
I  was  changed ;  such  a  loss,  you  know.  In  fact, 
there  were  several  lady  fairies,  who — but  no  mat- 
ter." And  he  gave  a  slight  cough,  and  began  to 
arrange  his  necktie  with  a  disgracefully  conse- 
quential air,  though  he  was  trying  very  hard  not 
to  look  conceited ;  and  while  he  was  endeavouring 
to  appear  easy  and  gracefully  careless,  he  began 
accidentally  to  hum,  "  See  the  Conquering  Hero 
Comes,"  which  was  not  the  right  tune  under  the 
circumstances. 

"  But  for  you,"  he  said  next,  "  I  couldn't  have 
given  them  the  relief  and  pleasure  of  seeing  me 
this  evening.  And  what  ecstasy  it  will  be  to 
them,  to  be  sure  !  I  shouldn't  be  surprised  if  it 
broke  up  the  whole  thing.  They'll  faint  so — for 
joy,  you  know — just  at  first — that  is,  the  ladies 
will.  The  men  won't  like  it  at  all;  and  I  don't 
blame  'em.  I  suppose  I  shouldn't  like  it — to  see 
another  fellow  sweep  all  before  him.  That's  what 
I  do  ;  I  sweep  all  before  me."  And  he  waved  his 
hand  in  such  a  fine  large  gesture  that  he  over- 
balanced himself,  and  turned  a  somersault.  But 
he  jumped  up  after  it  quite  undisturbed. 

"  You'll  see  me  do  it  to-night,"  he  said,  knock- 
ing the  dents  out  of  his  hat — "  sweep  all  before 
me."     Then  he  put  his  hat  on,  and  his  hands  on  his 


156        The  Story  of  Prince  Fairy  foot 

hips,  with  a  swaggering,  man-of-society  air.  "  I 
say/'  he  said,  "  I'm  glad  you're  going.  I  should 
like  you  to  see  it." 

"  And  I  should  like  to  see  it,"  replied  Fairyfoot. 

"  Well,"  said  Mr.  Goodfellow,  "  you  deserve 
it,  though  that's  saying  a  great  deal.  You've 
restored  me  to  them.  But  for  you,  even  if  I'd 
escaped  that  hawk,  I  should  have  had  to  spend 
the  night  in  that  beastly  robin's  nest,  crowded 
into  a  corner  by  those  squawking  things,  and 
domineered  over  by  her !  I  wasn't  made  for  that ! 
I'm  superior  to  it.  Domestic  life  doesn't  suit  me. 
I  was  made  for  society.  I  adorn  it.  She  never 
appreciated  me.  She  couldn't  soar  to  it.  When 
I  think  of  the  way  she  treated  me,"  he  exclaimed, 
suddenly  getting  into  a  rage,  "  I've  a  great  mind 
to  turn  back  into  a  robin  and  peck  her  head  off ! " 

"Would  you  like  to  see  her  now  ?  "  asked  Fairy- 
foot,  innocently. 

Mr.  Goodfellow  glanced  behind  him  in  great 
haste,  and  suddenly  sat  down. 

"  No,  no  !  "  he  exclaimed  in  a  tremendous  hurry ; 
"  by  no  means  !  She  has  no  delicacy.  And  she 
doesn't  deserve  to  see  me.  And  there's  a  violence 
and  uncertainty  about  her  movements  whic'n  is 
annoying  beyond  anything  you  can  imagine.  No^ 
I  don't  want  to  see  her !  I'll  let  her  go  un- 
punished for  the  present.  Perhaps  it's  punish- 
ment enough  for  her  to  be  deprived  of  me.    Just 


The  Story  of  Prince  Fairy  foot       157 

pick  up  your  cap,  won't  you  ?  and  if  you  see  any 
birds  lying  about,  throw  it  at  them,  robins  par- 
ticularly." 

"  I  think  I  must  take  the  swine  home,  if  you'll 
excuse  me,"  said  Fairyfoot,  "  I'm  late  now." 

"  Well,  let  me  sit  on  your  shoulder  and  I'll  go 
with  you  and  show  you  a  short  way  home,"  said 
Goodfellow  ;  "  I  know  all  about  it,  so  you  needn't 
think  about  yourself  again.  In  fact,  we'll  talk 
about  the  party.  Just  blow  your  whistle,  and  the 
swine  will  go  ahead." 

Fairyfoot  did  so,  and  the  swine  rushed  through 
the  forest  before  them,  and  Robin  Goodfellow 
perched  himself  on  the  Prince's  shoulder,  and 
chatted  as  they  went. 

It  had  taken  Fairyfoot  hours  to  reach  the  place 
where  he  found  Robin,  but  somehow  it  seemed  to 
him  only  a  very  short  time  before  they  came  to 
the  open  place  near  the  swineherd's  hut;  and  the 
path  they  had  walked  in  had  been  so  pleasant  and 
flowery  that  it  had  been  delightful  all  the  way. 

"  Now,"  said  Robin  when  they  stopped,  "  if  you 
will  come  here  to-night  at  twelve  o'clock,  when 
the  moon  shines  under  this  tree,  you  will  find  me 
waiting  for  you.  Now  I'm  going.  Good-bye !  " 
And  he  was  gone  before  the  last  word  was  quite 
finished. 

Fairyfoot  went  towards  the  hut,  driving  the 
swine  before  him,  and  suddenly  he  saw  the  swine- 


158        The  Story  of  Prince  Fairyfoot 

herd  come  out  of  his  house,  and  stand  staring 
stupidly  at  the  pigs.  He  was  a  very  coarse,  hid- 
eous man,  with  bristling  yellow  hair,  and  little 
eyes,  and  a  face  rather  like  a  pig's,  and  he  always 
looked  stupid,  but  just  now  he  looked  more  stu* 
pid  than  ever.     He  seemed  dumb  with  surprise. 

"  What's  the  matter  with  the  swine  ?  "  he  asked 
in  his  hoarse  voice,  which  was  rather  piglike,  too 

"  I  don't  know,"  answered  Fairyfoot,  feeling  a 
little  alarmed.    "  What  is  the  matter  with  them  ?" 

"  They  are  four  times  fatter,  and  five  times  big. 
ger,  and  six  times  cleaner,  and  seven  times  heav 
ier,  and  eight  times  handsomer  than  they  were 
when  you  took  them  out,"  the  swineherd  said. 

"  I've  done  nothing  to  them,"  said  Fairyfoot. 
"  They  ran  away,  but  they  came  back  again." 

The  swineherd  went  lumbering  back  intv>  the 
hut,  and  called  his  wife. 

"  Come  and  look  at  the  swine,"  he  said. 

And  then  the  woman  came  out,  and  stared  first 
at  the  swine  and  then  at  Fairyfoot. 

"  He  has  been  with  the  fairies,"  she  said  at  last 
to  her  husband ;  "  or  it  is  because  he  is  a  king's 
son.  We  must  treat  him  better  if  ha  can  do  won- 
ders like  that." 


"WHAT'S  THE  MATTER  WITH  THE  SWINE?"  HE  ASKEDb 


PART  II' 

In  went  the  shepherd's  wife,  and  she  prepared 
quite  a  good  supper  for  Fairyfoot  and  gave  it  to 
him.  But  Fairyfoot  was  scarcely  hungry  at  all ; 
he  was  so  eager  for  the  night  to  come,  so  that  he 
might  see  the  fairies.  When  he  went  to  his  loft 
under  the  roof,  he  thought  at  first  that  he  could 
not  sleep ;  but  suddenly  his  hand  touched  the 
fairy  whistle  and  he  fell  asleep  at  once,  and  did 
not  waken  again  until  a  moonbeam  fell  brightly 
upon  his  face  and  aroused  him.  Then  he  jumped 
up  and  ran  to  the  hole  in  the  wall  to  look  out, 
and  he  saw  that  the  hour  had  come,  and  the  moon 
was  so  low  in  the  sky  that  its  slanting  light  had 
crept  under  the  oak-tree. 

He  slipped  downstairs  so  lightly  that  his  mas- 
ter heard  nothing,  and  then  he  found  himself  out 
in  the  beautiful  night  with  the  moonlight  so 
bright  that  it  was  lighter  than  daytime.  And 
there  was  Robin  Goodfellow  waiting  for  him 
under  the  tree !  He  was  so  finely  dressed  that, 
for  a  moment,  Fairyfoot  scarcely  knew  him.  His 
suit  was  made  out  of  the  purple  velvet  petals  of 
a  pansy,  which  was  far  finer  than  any  ordinary 

velvet,   and   he   wore   plumes  and  tassels,  and  a 
xx 


1 62        The  Story  of  Prince  Fairyfoot 

ruffle  around  his  neck,  and  in  his  belt  was  thrust 
a  tiny  sword,  not  half  as  big  as  the  finest  needle. 

"  Take  me  on  your  shoulder,"  he  said  to  Fairy- 
foot,  "and  I  will  show  you  the  way." 

Fairyfoot  took  him  up,  and  they  went  their 
way  through  the  forest.  And  the  strange  part 
Df  it  was  that  though  Fairyfoot  thought  he  knew 
ill  the  forest  by  heart,  every  path  they  took  was 
new  to  him,  and  more  beautiful  than  anything  he 
had  ever  seen  before.  The  moonlight  seemed 
:o  grow  brighter  and  purer  at  every  step,  and 
the  sleeping  flowers  sweeter  and  lovelier,  and  the 
moss  greener  and  thicker.  Fairyfoot  felt  so 
happy  and  gay  that  he  forgot  he  had  ever  been 
sad  and  lonely  in  his  life. 

Robin  Goodfellow,  too,  seemed  to  be  in  very 
good  spirits.  He  related  a  great  many  stories  to 
Fairyfoot,  and,  singularly  enough,  they  were  all 
ibout  himself  and  divers  and  sundry  fairy  ladies 
vho  had  been  so  very  much  attached  to  him  that 
he  scarcely  expected  to  find  them  alive  at  the 
present  moment.  He  felt  quite  sure  they  must 
have  died  of  grief  in  his  absence. 

"  I  have  caused  a  great  deal  of  trouble  in  the 
course  of  my  life,"  he  said,  regretfully,  shaking 
his  head.  "  I  have  sometimes  wished  I  could 
avoid  it,  but  that  is  impossible.  Ahem !  When 
my  great-aunt's  grandmother  rashly  and  inoppor- 
tunely changed  me  into  a  robin,  I  was  having  a 


T"ke  Story  of  Prince  Fairy  foot       103 

dttle  flirtation  with  a  little  creature  who  was 
really  quite  attractive.  I  might  have  decided  to 
engage  myself  to  her.  She  was  very  charming. 
Her  name  was  Gauzita.  To-morrow  I  shall  go 
and  place  flowers  on  her  tomb." 

"  I  thought  fairies  never  died,"  said  Fairyfoot. 

"  Only  on  rare  occasions,  and  only  from  love," 
answered  Robin.  "  They  needn't  die  unless  they 
wish  to.  They  have  been  known  to  do  it  through 
love.  They  frequently  wish  they  hadn't  after 
ward — in  fact,  invariably — and  then  they  can 
come  to  life  again.     But  Gauzita " 

"  Are  you  quite  sure  she  is  dead  ?  "  asked  Fairy- 
foot. 

"  Sure ! "  cried  Mr.  Goodfellow,  in  wild  indig- 
nation, "  why,  she  hasn't  seen  me  for  a  couple  of 
years.  I've  moulted  twice  since  last  we  met. 
I  congratulate  myself  that  she  didn't  see  me 
then,"  he  added,  in  a  lower  voice.  "  Of  course 
she's  dead,"  he  added,  with  solemn  emphasis ; 
"  as  dead  as  a  door  nail." 

Just  then  Fairyfoot  heard  some  enchanting 
sounds,  faint,  but  clear.  They  were  sounds  of 
delicate  music  and  of  tiny  laughter,  like  the  ring- 
ing of  fairy  bells. 

"Ah!"  said  Robin  Goodfellow,  "there  they 
are !  But  it  seems  to  me  they  are  rather  gay, 
considering  they  have  not.  seen  me  for  so  long 
Turn  into  the  path." 


1 64        The  Story  of  Prince  Fairy  foot 

Almost  immediately  they  found  themselves  in 
a  beautiful  little  dell,  filled  with  moonlight,  and 
with  glittering  stars  in  the  cup  of  every  flower ; 
for  there  were  thousands  of  dewdrops,  and  every 
dewdrop  shone  like  a  star.  There  were  also 
crowds  and  crowds  of  tiny  men  and  women,  al) 
beautiful,  all  dressed  in  brilliant,  delicate  dresses, 
all  laughing  or  dancing  or  feasting  at  the  little 
tables,  which  were  loaded  with  every  dainty  the 
most  fastidious  fairy  could  wish  for. 

"Now,"  said  Robin  Goodfellow,  "you  shall  see 
me  sweep  all  before  me.     Put  me  down." 

Fairyfoot  put  him  down,  and  stood  and  watched 
him  while  he  walked  forward  with  a  very  grand 
manner.  He  went  straight  to  the  gayest  and 
largest  group  he  could  see.  It  was  a  group  of 
gentlemen  fairies,  who  were  crowding  around  a 
lily  of  the  valley,  on  the  bent  stem  of  which  a 
tiny  lady  fairy  was  sitting,  airily  swaying  herself 
to  and  fro,  and  laughing  and  chatting  with  all  her 
admirers  at  once. 

She  seemed  to  be  enjoying  herself  immensely  ; 
indeed,  it  was  disgracefully  plain  that  she  was 
having  a  great  deal  of  fun.  One  gentleman  fairy 
was  fanning  her,  one  was  holding  her  programme, 
one  had  her  bouquet,  another  her  little  scent 
bottle,  and  those  who  had  nothing  to  hold  for  her 
were  scowling  furiously  at  the  rest.  It  was  evi- 
dent that  she  was  very  popular,  and  that  she  did 


ALMOST  IMMEDIATELY  THEY  FOUND  THEMSELVES  IN  A  BEAUTIFUL  LITTLE  DELL. 


The  Story  of  Prince  Fairy  foot       167 

not  object  to  it  at  all ;  in  fact,  the  way  her  eyes 
sparkled  and  danced  was  distinctly  reprehensible. 

"You  have  engaged  to  dance  the  next  waltz 
with  every  one  of  us !  "  said  one  of  her  adorers. 
"  How  are  you  going  to  do  it?" 

"  Did  I  engage  to  dance  with  all  of  you  ?  "  she 
said,  giving  her  lily  stem  the  sauciest  little  swing, 
which  set  all  the  bells  ringing.  "  Well,  I  am  not 
going  to  dance  it  with  all." 

"  Not  with  me  f "  the  admirer  with  the  fan 
whispered  in  her  ear. 

She  gave  him  the  most  delightful  little  look, 
just  to  make  him  believe  she  wanted  to  dance 
with  him  but  really  couldn't.  Robin  Goodfel- 
low  saw  her.  And  then  she  smiled  sweetly  upon 
all  the  rest,  every  one  of  them.  Robin  Goodfel- 
low  saw  that,  too. 

"  I  am  going  to  sit  here  and  look  at  you,  and 
let  you  talk  to  me,"  she  said.  "  I  do  so  enjoy 
brilliant  conversation." 

All  the  gentlemen  fairies  were  so  much  elated 
by  this  that  they  began  to  brighten  up,  and  settle 
their  ruffs,  and  fall  into  graceful  attitudes,  and 
think  of  sparkling  things  to  say ;  because  every 
one  of  them  knew,  from  the  glance  of  her  eyes 
in  his  direction,  that  he  was  one  whose  conver- 
sation was  brilliant  ;  every  one  knew  there 
could  be  no  mistake  about  its  being  himself  that 
she  meant.     The  way  she  looked  just  proved  it. 


168       The  Story  of  Prince  Fairyfoot 

Altogether  it  was  more  than  Robin  Goodfellow 
could  stand,  for  it  was  Gauzita  who  was  deport- 
ing herself  in  this  unaccountable  manner,  swing- 
ing on  lily  stems,  and  "going  on,"  so  to  speak, 
with  several  parties  at  once,  in  a  way  to  chill  the 
blood  of  any  proper  young  lady  fairy  —  who 
hadn't  any  partner  at  all.     It  was  Gauzita  herself. 

He  made  his  way  into  the  very  centre  of  the 
group. 

"  Gauzita ! "  he  said.  He  thought,  of  course, 
she  would  drop  right  off  her  lily  stem ;  but  she 
didn't.  She  simply  stopped  swinging  a  moment, 
and  stared  at  him. 

"  Gracious  !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  And  who  are 
you?" 

"  Who  am  I  ?"  cried  Mr.  Goodfellow,  severely. 
"  Don't  you  remember  me  ?  " 

"  No,"  she  said,  coolly ;  "  I  don't,  not  in  the 
least." 

Robin  Goodfellow  almost  gasped  for  breath. 
He  had  never  met  with  anything  so  outrageous 
in  his  life. 

"  You  don't  remember  me  ?  "  he  cried.  "  Me  ! 
Why,  it's  impossible !  " 

"  Is  it  ?  "  said  Gauzita,  with  a  touch  of  daint^ 
impudence.     "  What's  your  name  ?  " 

Robin  Goodfellow  was  almost  paralyzed.  Gau- 
zita took  up  a  midget  of  an  eyeglass  which  she 
had  dangling  from  a  thread  of  a  gold  chain,  and 


The  Story  of  Prince  Fairyfoot       169 

she  stuck  it  in  her  eye  and  tilted  her  impertinent 
little  chin  and  looked  him  over.  Not  that  she 
was  near-sighted — not  a  bit  of  it ;  it  was  just  one 
of  her  tricks  and  manners. 

"  Dear  me  !  "  she  said,  "  you  do  look  a  trifle  fa- 
miliar.    It  isn't,  it  can't  be,  Mr. ,  Mr. /' 

then  she  turned  to  the  adorer,  who  held  her  fan, 

"  it  can't  be  Mr. ,  the  one  who  was  changed 

into  a  robin,  you  know,"  she  said.  "  Such  a  ri- 
diculous thing  to  be  changed  into !  What  was 
his  name?" 

"  Oh,  yes !    I  know  whom  you  mean.    Mr. , 

ah — Goodfellow  !  "  said  the  fairy  with  the  fan. 

"  So  it  was,"  she  said,  looking  Robin  over 
again.  "  And  he  has  been  pecking  at  trees  and 
things,  and  hopping  in  and  out  of  nests  ever 
since,  I  suppose.  How  absurd  !  And  we  have 
been  enjoying  ourselves  so  much  since  he  went 
away !  I  think  I  never  did  have  so  lovely  a  time 
as  I  have  had  during  these  last  two  years.  I  be- 
gan to  know  you,"  she  added,  in  a  kindly  tone, 
"just  abou^;  the  time  he  went  away." 

"You  have  been  enjoying  yourself?"  almost 
shrieked  Robin  Goodfellow. 

"  Well,"  said  Gauzita,  in  unexcusable  slang,  "  I 
must  smile."     And  she  did  smile. 

"  And  nobody  has  pined  away  and  died  ?"  cried 
Robin. 

-'  I  haven't,"  said  Gauzita,  swinging  herself  and 


170       The  Story  of  Prince  Fairy  foot 

ringing  her  bells  again.  "  I  really  haven't  had 
time." 

Robin  Goodfellow  turned  around  and  rushed 
out  of  the  group.  He  regarded  this  as  insulting. 
He  went  back  to  Fairyfoot  in  such  a  hurry  that 
he  tripped  on  his  sword  and  fell,  and  rolled  over 
so  many  times  that  Fairyfoot  had  to  stop  him  and 
pick  him  up. 

"  Is  she  dead  ?  "  asked  Fairyfoot. 

«  No,"  said  Robin  ;  "  she  isn't." 

He  sat  down  on  a  small  mushroom  and  clasped 
his  hands  about  his  knees  and  looked  mad — just 
mad.     Angry  or  indignant  wouldn't  express  it. 

"  I  have  a  great  mind  to  go  and  be  a  misan- 
thrope," he  said. 

"  Oh  !  I  wouldn't,"  said  Fairyfoot.  He  didn't 
know  what  a  misanthrope  was,  but  he  thought  it 
must  be  something  unpleasant. 

"  Wouldn't  you  ?  "  said  Robin,  looking  up  at 
him. 

"  No,"  answered  Fairyfoot. 

"  Well,"  said  Robin,  "  I  guess  I  won't.  Let's 
go  and  have  some  fun.  They  are  all  that  way. 
You  can't  depend  on  any  of  them.  Never  trust 
one  of  them.  I  believe  that  creature  has  been 
engaged  as  much  as  twice  since  I  left.  By  a 
singular  coincidence,"  he  added,  "  I  have  been 
married  twice  myself — but,  of  course,  that's  dif- 
ferent.    I'm  a  man,  you  know,  and — well,  it's  dif- 


The  Story  of  Prince  Fairy  foot       1 7 1 

ferent.  We  won't  dwell  on  it.  Let's  go  and 
dance.  But  wait  a  minute  first."  He  took  a  little 
bottle  from  his  pocket. 

"  If  you  remain  the  size  you  are,"  he  continued, 
"  you  will  tread  on  whole  sets  of  lancers  and  de- 
stroy entire  germans.  If  you  drink  this,  you  will 
become  as  small  as  we  are ;  and  then,  when  you 
are  going  home,  I  will  give  you  something  to 
make  you  large  again."  Fairyfoot  drank  from 
the  little  flagon,  and  immediately  he  felt  himself 
growing  smaller  and  smaller  until  at  last  he  was 
as  small  as  his  companion. 

"  Now,  come  on,"  said  Robin. 

On  they  went  and  joined  the  fairies,  and  they 
danced  and  played  fairy  games  and  feasted  on 
fairy  dainties,  and  were  so  gay  and  happy  that 
Fairyfoot  was  wild  with  joy.  Everybody  made 
him  welcome  and  seemed  to  like  him,  and  the 
lady  fairies  were  simply  delightful,  especially 
Gauzita,  who  took  a  great  fancy  to  him.  Just 
before  the  sun  rose,  Robin  gave  him  something 
from  another  flagon,  and  he  grew  large  again, 
and  two  minutes  and  three  seconds  and  a  half 
before  daylight  the  ball  broke  up,  and  Robin  took 
him  home  and  left  him,  promising  to  call  for  him 
the  next  night. 

Every  night  throughout  the  whole  summer  the 
same  thing  happened.  At  midnight  he  went  to 
the  fairies'  dance ;  and  at  two  minutes  and  three 


172        The  Story  of  Prince  Fairy  foot 

seconds  and  a  half  before  dawn  he  came  home. 
He  was  never  lonely  any  more,  because  all  day 
long  he  could  think  of  what  pleasure  he  would 
have  when  the  night  came ;  and,  besides  that,  all 
the  fairies  were  his  friends.  But  when  the  sum- 
mer was  coming  to  an  end,  Robin  Goodfellow 
said  to  him  :  "  This  is  our  last  dance — at  least  it 
will  be  our  last  for  some  time.  At  this  time  of 
the  year  we  always  go  back  to  our  own  country, 
and  we  don't  return  until  spring." 

This  made  Fairyfoot  very  sad.  He  did  not 
know  how  he  could  bear  to  be  left  alone  again, 
but  he  knew  it  could  not  be  helped ;  so  he  tried 
to  be  as  cheerful  as  possible,  and  he  went  to  the 
final  festivities,  and  enjoyed  himself  more  than 
ever  before,  and  Gauzita  gave  him  a  tiny  ring  for 
a  parting  gift.  But  the  next  night,  when  Robin 
did  not  come  for  him,  he  felt  very  lonely  indeed, 
and  the  next  day  he  was  so  sorrowful  that  he 
wandered  far  away  into  the  forest,  in  the  hope  of 
finding  something  to  cheer  him  a  little.  He 
wandered  so  far  that  he  became  very  tired  and 
thirsty,  and  he  was  just  making  up  his  mind  to 
go  home,  when  he  thought  he  heard  the  sound  of 
falling  water.  It  seemed  to  come  from  behind  a 
thicket  of  climbing  roses ;  and  he  went  towards 
the  place  and  pushed  the  branches  aside  a  little, 
so  that  he  could  look  through.  What  he  saw 
was  a  great  surprise  to  him.     Though  it  was  the 


The  Story  of  Prince  Fairyfoot       173 

end  of  summer,  inside  the  thicket  the  roses  were 
blooming  in  thousands  all  around  a  pool  as  clear 
as  crystal,  into  which  the  sparkling  water  fell 
from  a  hole  in  the  rock  above.  It  was  the  most 
beautiful,  clear  pool  that  Fairyfoot  had  ever  seen, 
and  he  pressed  his  way  through  the  rose  branches, 
and,  entering  the  circle  they  inclosed,  he  knelt 
by  the  water  and  drank. 

Almost  instantly  his  feeling  of  sadness  left  him, 
and  he  felt  quite  happy  and  refreshed.  He 
stretched  himself  on  the  thick  perfumed  moss, 
and  listened  to  the  tinkling  of  the  water,  and  it 
was  not  long  before  he  fell  asleep. 

When  he  awakened  the  moon  was  shining,  the 
pool  sparkled  like  a  silver  plaque  crusted  with 
diamonds,  and  two  nightingales  were  singing  in 
the  branches  over  his  head.  And  the  next  mo- 
ment he  found  out  that  he  understood  their 
language  just  as  plainly  as  if  they  had  been 
human  beings  instead  of  birds.  The  water  with 
which  he  had  quenched  his  thirst  was  enchanted, 
and  had  given  him  this  new  power. 

"  Poor  boy !  "  said  one  nightingale,  "  he  looks 
tired ;  I  wonder  where  he  came  from." 

"  Why,  my  dear,"  said  the  other,  "  is  it  possible 
you  don't  know  that  he  is  Prince  Fairyfoot?  " 

"  What ! "  said  the  first  nightingale — "  the  King 
of  Stumpinghame's  son,  who  was  born  with  small 
feet?" 


174        The  Story  of  Prince  Fairy  foot 

"  Yes,"  said  the  second.  "  And  the  poor  child 
has  lived  in  the  forest,  keeping  the  swineherd's 
pigs  ever  since.  And  he  is  a  very  nice  boy,  too — 
never  throws  stones  at  birds  or  robs  nests." 

"  What  a  pity  he  doesn't  know  about  the  pool 
where  the  red  berries  grow  1  "  said  the  first  night- 
ingale. 


PART  III 

"What  pool — and  what  red  berries?"  asked 
the  second  nightingale. 

"  Why,  my  dear,"  said  the  first,  "  is  it  possible 
you  don't  know  about  the  pool  where  the  red 
berries  grow — the  pool  where  the  poor,  dear  Prin- 
cess Goldenhair  met  with  her  misfortune  ?  " 

"  Never  heard  of  it,"  said  the  second  nightin- 
gale, rather  crossly. 

"  Well,"  explained  the  other,  "  you  have  to  fol 
low  the  brook  for  a  day  and  three-quarters,  and 
then  take  all  the  paths  to  the  left  until  you  come 
to  the  pool.  It  is  very  ugly  and  muddy,  and 
bushes  with  red  berries  on  them  grow  around  it." 

"  Well,  what  of  that  ?  "  said  her  companion ; 
"and  what  happened  to  the  Princess  Golden- 
hair?" 

"  Don't  you  know  that,  either?"  exclaimed  her 
friend. 

"No." 

"  Ah  ! "  said  the  first  nightingale,  "  it  was  very 
sad.  She  went  out  with  her  father,  the  King, 
who  had  a  hunting  party ;  and  she  lost  her  way, 
and  wandered  on  until  she  came  to  the  pool. 
Her  poor  little  feet  were  so  hot  that  she  took  off 
her  gold  -  embroidered    satin   slippers,   and   put 


176       The  Story  of  fttncc  Fairy  foot 

them  into  the  water — her  feet,  not  the  slippers— 
and  the  next  minute  they  began  to  grow  and 
grow,  and  to  get  larger  and  larger,  until  they 
were  so  immense  she  could  hardly  walk  at  all ; 
and  though  all  the  physicians  in  the  kingdom 
have  tried  to  make  them  smaller,  nothing  can  be 
done,  and  she  is  perfectly  unhappy." 

"  What  a  pity  she  doesn't  know  about  this 
pool ! "  said  the  other  bird.  "  If  she  just  came 
here  and  bathed  them  three  times  in  the  water, 
they  would  be  smaller  and  more  beautiful  than 
ever,  and  she  would  be  more  lovely  than  she  has 
ever  been." 

"  It  is  a  pity,"  said  her  companion ;  "  but,  you 
know,  if  we  once  let  people  know  what  this  water 
will  do,  we  should  be  overrun  with  creatures  bath- 
ing themselves  beautiful,  and  trampling  our  moss 
and  tearing  down  our  rose-trees,  and  we  should 
never  have  any  peace." 

"  That  is  true,"  agreed  the  other. 

Very  soon  after  they  flew  away,  and  Fairyfoot 
was  left  alone.  He  had  been  so  excited  while 
they  were  talking  that  he  had  been  hardly  able  to 
lie  still.  He  was  so  sorry  for  the  Princess  Gold- 
enhair,  and  so  glad  for  himself.  Now  he  could 
find  his  way  to  the  pool  with  the  red  berries,  and 
he  could  bathe  his  feet  in  it  until  they  were  large 
enough  to  satisfy  Stumpinghame ;  and  he  could 
go  back  to  his  father's    court,  and   his   parents 


The  Story  of  Prince  Fairy  foot       177 

would  perhaps  be  fond  of  him.  But  he  had  so 
good  a  heart  that  he  could  not  think  of  being 
happy  himself  and  letting  others  remain  unhappy, 
when  he  could  help  them.  So  the  first  thing  was 
to  find  the  Princess  Goldenhair  and  tell  her  about 
the  nightingales'  fountain.  But  how  was  he  to 
find  her  ?  The  nightingales  had  not  told  him. 
He  was  very  much  troubled,  indeed.  How  was 
he  to  find  her? 

Suddenly,  quite  suddenly,  he  thought  of  the 
ring  Gauzita  had  given  him.  When  she  had 
given  it  to  him  she  had  made  an  odd  remark. 

"  When  you  wish  to  go  anywhere,"  she  had 
said,  "  hold  it  in  your  hand,  turn  around  twice 
with  closed  eyes,  and  something  queer  will  hap- 
pen." 

He  had  thought  it  was  one  of  her  little  jokes, 
but  now  it  occurred  to  him  that  at  least  he  might 
try  what  would  happen.  So  he  rose  up,  held  the 
ring  in  his  hand,  closed  his  eyes,  and  turned 
around  twice. 

What  did  happen  was  that  he  began  to  walk, 
not  very  fast,  but  still  passing  along  as  if  he  were 
moving  rapidly.  He  did  not  know  where  he  was 
going,  but  he  guessed  that  the  ring  did,  and  that 
if  he  obeyed  it,  he  should  find  the  Princess  Gold- 
enhair. He  went  on  and  on,  not  getting  in  the 
least  tired,  until  about  daylight  he  found  himself 

under  a  great  tree,  and  on  the  ground  beneath  it 
12 


178       The  Story  of  Prince  Fairy  foot 

was  spread  a  delightful  breakfast,  which  he  knew 
was  for  him.  He  sat  down  and  ate  it,  and  then 
got  up  again  and  went  on  his  way  once  more. 
Before  noon  he  had  left  the  forest  behind  him, 
and  was  in  a  strange  country.  He  knew  it  was 
not  Stumpinghame,  because  the  people  had  not 
large  feet.  But  they  all  had  sad  faces,  and  once 
or  twice,  when  he  passed  groups  of  them  who 
were  talking,  he  heard  them  speak  of  the  Princess 
Goldenhair,  as  if  they  were  sorry  for  her  and 
could  not  enjoy  themselves  while  such  a  misfort- 
une rested  upon  her. 

"  So  sweet  and  lovely  and  kind  a  princess ! " 
they  said  ;  "  and  it  really  seems  as  if  she  would 
never  be  any  better." 

The  sun  was  just  setting  when  Fairyfoot  came 
in  sight  of  the  palace.  It  was  built  of  white  mar- 
ble,  and  had  beautiful  pleasure-grounds  about  it, 
but  somehow  there  seemed  to  be  a  settled  gloom 
in  the  air.  Fairyfoot  had  entered  the  great  pleas- 
ure-garden, and  was  wondering  where  it  would 
be  best  to  go  first,  when  he  saw  a  lovely  white 
fawn,  with  a  golden  collar  about  its  neck,  come 
bounding  over  the  flower-beds,  and  he  heard,  at 
a  little  distance,  a  sweet  voice,  saying,  sorrowfully, 
"  Come  back,  my  fawn ;  1  cannot  run  and  play 
with  you  as  I  once  used  to.  Do  not  leave  me, 
my  little  friend." 

And  soon  from  behind  the  trees  came  a  line  of 


The  Story  of  Prince  Fairy  foot       179 

oeautiful  girls,  walking  two  by  two,  all  very 
slowly;  and  at  the  head  of  the  line,  first  of  all, 
came  the  loveliest  princess  in  the  world,  dressed 
softly  in  pure  white,  with  a  wreath  of  lilies  on  her 
long  golden  hair,  which  fell  almost  to  the  hem  of 
her  white  gown. 

She  had  so  fair  and  tender  a  young  face,  and 
her  large,  soft  eyes,  yet  looked  so  sorrowful,  that 
Fairyfoot  loved  her  in  a  moment,  and  he  knelt  on 
one  knee,  taking  off  his  cap  and  bending  his  head 
until  his  own  golden  hair  almost  hid  his  face. 

"  Beautiful  Princess  Goldenhair,  beautiful  and 
sweet  Princess,  may  I  speak  to  you  ?  "  he  said. 

The  Princess  stopped  and  looked  at  him,  and 
answered  him  softly.  It  surprised  her  to  see  one 
so  poorly  dressed  kneeling  before  her,  in  her  pal- 
ace gardens,  among  the  brilliant  flowers  ;  but  she 
always  spoke  softly  to  everyone. 

"What  is  there  that  I  can  do  for  you,  my 
friend  ?  "  she  said. 

"  Beautiful  Princess,"  answered  Fairyfoot, 
blushing,  "  I  hope  very  much  that  I  may  be  able 
to  do  something  for  you." 

"  For  me ! "  she  exclaimed.  "  Thank  you, 
triend  ;  what  is  it  you  can  do?  Indeed,  I  need  a 
help  I  am  afraid  no  one  can  ever  give  me." 

"  Gracious  and  fairest  lady,"  said  Fairyfoot, 
"  it  is  that  help  I  think — nay,  I  am  sure — that  I 
bring  to  you." 


i8o       7  he  Story  of  Prince  Fairy  foot 

"  Oh  !  "  said  the  sweet  Princess.  "  You  have  a 
kind  face  and  most  true  eyes,  and  when  I  look  at 
you — I  do  not  know  why  it  is,  but  I  feel  a  little 
happier.     What  is  it  you  would  say  to  me  ?  " 

Still  kneeling  before  her,  still  bending  his  head 
modestly,  and  still  blushing,  Fairyfoot  told  his 
story.  He  told  her  of  his  own  sadness  and  lone- 
liness, and  of  why  he  was  considered  so  terrible 
a  disgrace  to  his  family.  He  told  her  about  the 
fountain  of  the  nightingales  and  what  he  had 
heard  there  and  how  he  had  journeyed  through 
the  forests,  and  beyond  it  into  her  own  country, 
to  find  her.  And  while  he  told  it,  her  beautiful 
face  changed  from  red  to  white,  and  her  hands 
closely  clasped  themselves  together. 

"  Oh  !  "  she  said,  when  he  had  finished, "  I  know 
that  this  is  true  from  the  kind  look  in  your  eyes, 
and  I  shall  be  happy  again.  And  how  can  I 
thank  you  for  being  so  good  to  a  poor  little 
princess  whom  you  had  never  seen  ?  " 

"  Only  let  me  see  you  happy  once  more,  most 
sweet  Princess,"  answered  Fairyfoot,  "  and  that 
will  be  all  I  desire — only  if,  perhaps,  I  might  once 
— kiss  your  hand." 

She  held  out  her  hand  to  him  with  so  lovely  a 
look  in  her  soft  eyes  that  he  felt  happier  than  he 
had  ever  been  before,  even  at  the  fairy  dances. 
This  was  a  different  kind  of  happiness.  Her  hand 
was  as  white  as  a  dove's  wing  and  as  soft  as  a 


'" m vi 'fro**'*  "'        ^&^^iK*' 

m$w\  •*"      *     any  kVpfiBhtf1! 


fAlRYFOOT  LOVED  HER  IN  A  MOMENT,  AND  HE  KNEI T  o»  ONE  KNEE. 


The  Story  of  Prince  Fairy  foot       183 

(love's  breast.  "  Come,"  she  said,  "  let  us  go  at 
once  to  the  King." 

Within  a  few  minutes  the  whole  palace  was 
in  an  uproar  of  excitement.  Preparations  were 
made  to  go  to  the  fountain  of  the  nightingales 
immediately.  Remembering  what  the  birds  had 
said  about  not  wishing  to  be  disturbed,  Fairyfoot 
asked  the  King  to  take  only  a  small  party.  So 
no  one  was  to  go  but  the  King  himself,  the  Prin- 
cess, in  a  covered  chair  carried  by  two  bearers, 
the  Lord  High  Chamberlain,  two  Maids  of  Hon- 
our, and  Fairyfoot. 

Before  morning  they  were  on  their  way,  and 
the  day  after  they  reached  the  thicket  of  roses, 
and  Fairyfoot  pushed  aside  the  branches  and  led 
the  way  into  the  dell. 

The  Princess  Goldenhair  sat  down  upon  the 
edge  of  the  pool  and  put  her  feet  into  it.  In  two 
minutes  they  began  to  look  smaller.  She  bathed 
them  once,  twice,  three  times,  and,  as  the  night- 
ingales had  said,  they  became  smaller  and  more 
beautiful  than  ever.  As  for  the  Princess  herself, 
she  really  could  not  be  more  beautiful  than  she 
had  been  ;  but  the  Lord  High  Chamberlain,  who 
had  been  an  exceedingly  ugly  old  gentleman, 
after  washing  his  face,  became  so  young  and 
handsome  that  the  First  Maid  of  Honour  im- 
mediately fell  in  love  with  him.  Whereupon 
she  washed  her  face,  and   became  so  beautiful 


i&4        The  Story  of  Prince  Fairy  foot 

that  he  fell  in  love  with  her,  and  they  were 
engaged  upon  the  spot. 

The  Princess  could  not  find  any  words  to  tell 
Fairyfoot  how  grateful  she  was  and  how  happy. 
She  could  only  look  at  him  again  and  again  with 
her  soft,  radiant  eyes,  and  again  and  again  give 
him  her  hand  that  he  might  kiss  it. 

She  was  so  sweet  and  gentle  that  Fairyfoot 
could  not  bear  the  thought  of  leaving  her;  and 
when  the  King  begged  him  to  return  to  the  pal- 
ace with  them  and  live  there  always,  he  was  more 
glad  than  I  can  tell  you.  To  be  near  this  lovely 
Princess,  to  be  her  friend,  to  love  and  serve  her 
and  look  at  her  every  day,  was  such  happiness 
that  he  wanted  nothing  more.  But  first  he  wished 
to  visit  his  father  and  mother  and  sisters  and 
brothers  in  Stumpinghame !  so  the  King  and 
Princess  and  their  attendants  went  with  him  to 
the  pool  where  the  red  berries  grew ;  and  after 
he  had  bathed  his  feet  in  the  water  they  were  so 
large  that  Stumpinghame  contained  nothing  like 
them,  even  the  King's  and  Queen's  seeming  small 
in  comparison.  And  when,  a  few  days  later,  he 
arrived  at  the  Stumpinghame  Palace,  attended  in 
great  state  by  the  magnificent  retinue  with  which 
the  father  of  the  Princess  Goldenhair  had  pro- 
vided him,  he  was  received  with  unbounded  rapt- 
ure by  his  parents.  The  King  and  Queen  felt 
that  to  have  a  son  with  feet  of  such  a  size  was 


The  Story  of  Prince  Fairy  foot       185 

something  to  be  proud  of,  indeed.  They  could 
not  admire  him  sufficiently,  although  the  whole 
country  was  illuminated,  and  feasting  continued 
throughout  his  visit. 

But  though  he  was  glad  to  be  no  more  a  dis« 
grace  to  his  family,  it  cannot  be  said  that  he  en- 
joyed the  size  of  his  feet  very  much  on  his  own 
account.  Indeed,  he  much  preferred  being  Prince 
Fairyfoot,  as  fleet  as  the  wind  and  as  light  as  a 
young  deer,  and  he  was  quite  glad  to  go  to  the 
fountain  of  the  nightingales  after  his  visit  was  at 
an  end,  and  bathe  his  feet  small  again,  and  to  re- 
turn to  the  palace  of  the  Princess  Goldenhair  with 
the  soft  and  tender  eyes.  There  everyone  loved 
him,  and  he  loved  everyone,  and  was  four  times 
as  happy  as  the  day  is  long. 

He  loved  the  Princess  more  dearly  every  day, 
and,  of  course,  as  soon  as  they  were  old  enough, 
they  were  married.  And  of  course,  too,  they 
used  to  go  in  the  summer  to  the  forest,  and  dance 
in  the  moonlight  with  the  fairies,  who  adored 
them  both. 

When  they  went  to  visit  Stumpinghame,  they 
always  bathed  their  feet  in  the  pool  of  the  red 
berries ;  and  when  they  returned,  they  made 
them  small  again  in  the  fountain  of  the  nightin- 
gales. 

They  were  always  great  friends  with  Robin 
Goodfellow,  and  he  was  always  very  confidential 


1 86        The  Story  of  Prince  Fairy  foot 

with  them  about  Gauzita,  who  continued  to  be  as 
pretty  and  saucy  as  ever. 

"  Some  of  these  days,"  he  used  to  say,  severely, 
"  I'll  marry  another  fairy,  and  see  how  she'll  like 
that — to  see  someone  else  basking  in  my  society  ' 
I'll  get  even  with  her ! " 

But  he  never  did. 


THE   PROUD   LITTLE  GRAIN 
OF    WHEAT 


THE   PROUD   LITTLE  GRAIN 
OF   WHEAT 

THERE  once  was  a  little  grain  of  wheat  which 
was  very  proud  indeed.  The  first  thing  it  re- 
membered was  being  very  much  crowded  and 
jostled  by  a  great  many  other  grains  of  wheat,  all 
living  in  the  same  sack  in  the  granary.  It  was 
quite  dark  in  the  sack,  and  no  one  could  move 
about,  and  so  there  was  nothing  to  be  done  but  to 
sit  still  and  talk  and  think.  The  proud  little  grain 
of  wheat  talked  a  great  deal,  but  did  not  think 
quite  so  much,  while  its  next  neighbour  thought 
a  great  deal  and  only  talked  when  it  was  asked 
questions  it  could  answer.  It  used  to  say  that 
when  it  thought  a  great  deal  it  could  remember 
things  which  it  seemed  to  have  heard  a  long  time 
ago. 

"  What  is  the  use  of  our  staying  here  so  long 
doing  nothing,  and  never  being  seen  by  any- 
body ?  "  the  proud  little  grain  once  asked. 

"  I  don't  know,"  the  learned  grain  replied.  "  I 
don't  know  the  answer  to  that.    Ask  me  another." 

"  Why  can't  I  sing  like  the  birds  that  build 


190    The  Proud  Little  Grain  of  Wheat 

V: 

their  nests  in  the  roof?  I  should  like  to  sing,  in. 
stead  of  sitting  here  in  the  dark." 

"  Because  you  have  no  voice,"  said  the  learned 
grain. 

This  was  a  very  good  answer  indeed. 

"  Why  didn't  someone  give  me  a  voice,  then 
— why  didn't  they  ?  "  said  the  proud  little  grain, 
getting  very  cross. 

The  learned  grain  thought  for  several  minutes. 

"  There  might  be  two  answers  to  that,"  she  said 
at  last.  "  One  might  be  that  nobody  had  a  voice 
to  spare,  and  the  other  might  be  that  you  have 
nowhere  to  put  one  if  it  were  given  to  you." 

"  Everybody  is  better  off  than  I  am,"  said  the 
proud  little  grain.  "  The  birds  can  fly  and  sing, 
the  children  can  play  and  shout.  I  am  sure  I  can 
get  no  rest  for  their  shouting  and  playing.  There 
are  two  little  boys  who  make  enough  noise  to 
deafen  the  whole  sackful  of  us." 

"  Ah !  I  know  them,"  said  the  learned  grain. 
"  And  it's  true  they  are  noisy.  Their  names  are 
Lionel  and  Vivian.  There  is  a  thin  place  in  the 
side  of  the  sack,  through  which  I  can  see  them. 
I  would  rather  stay  where  I  am  than  have  to  do 
all  they  do.  They  have  long  yellow  hair,  and 
when  they  stand  on  their  heads  the  straw  sticks 
in  it  and  they  look  very  curious.  I  heard  a 
strange  thing  through  listening  to  them  the  other 
day." 


The  Proud  Little  Grain  of  Wheat    191 

"  What  was  it  ?  "  asked  the  proud  grain. 

"  They  were  playing  in  the  straw,  and  someone 
came  in  to  them — it  was  a  lady  who  had  brought 
them  something  on  a  plate.  They  began  to  dance 
and  shout :  '  It's  cake !  It's  cake !  Nice  little 
mamma  for  bringing  us  cake.'  And  then  they 
each  sat  down  with  a  piece  and  began  to  take 
great  bites  out  of  it.  I  shuddered  to  think  of  it 
afterward." 

"Why?" 

"  Well,  you  know  they  are  always  asking  ques- 
tions, and  they  began  to  ask  questions  of  their 
mamma,  who  lay  down  in  the  straw  near  them. 
She  seemed  to  be  used  to  it.  These  are  the  ques- 
tions Vivian  asked : 

"  '  Who  made  the  cake? ' 

" ■  The  cook/ 

"  '  Who  made  the  cook  ? ' 

"  •  God.' 

" ■  What  did  He  make  her  for?* 

"  « Why  didn't  He  make  her  white?' 

"  '  Why  didn't  He  make  you  black?' 

" '  Did  He  cut  a  hole  in  heaven  and  drop  me 
through  when  He  made  me  ? ' 

"  '  Why  didn't  it  hurt  me  when  I  tumbled  such 
a  long  way  ? ' 

"  She  said  she  '  didn't  know  '  to  all  but  the  two 
first,  and  then  he  asked  two  more. 

"  '  What  is  the  cake  made  of  ?' 


192    The  Proud  Little  Grain  of  Wheat 

"  '  Flour,  sugar,  eggs  and  butter.' 

"  '  What  is  flour  made  of  ?  ' 

"  It  was  the  answer  to  that  which  made  me 
shudder." 

"  What  was  it  ?  "  asked  the  proud  grain. 

"  She  said  it  was  made  of — wheat !  I  don't  see 
the  advantage  of  being  rich " 

"  Was  the  cake  rich  r  "  asked  the  proud  grain. 

"  Their  mother  said  it  was.  She  said,  '  Don't 
eat  it  so  fast — it  is  very  rich.'  " 

"  Ah  !  "  said  the  proud  grain.  "  I  should  like 
to  be  rich.  It  must  be  very  fine  to  be  rich.  If  I 
am  ever  made  into  cake,  I  mean  to  be  so  rich  that 
no  one  will  dare  to  eat  me  at  all." 

"  Ah  ?  "  said  the  learned  grain.  "  I  don't  think 
those  boys  would  be  afraid  to  eat  you,  however 
rich  you  were.  They  are  not  afraid  of  rich- 
ness." 

"  They'd  be  afraid  of  me  before  they  had  done 
with  me,"  said  the  proud  grain.  "  I  am  not  a 
common  grain  of  wheat.  Wait  until  I  am  made 
into  cake.  But  gracious  me !  there  doesn't  seem 
much  prospect  of  it  while  we  are  shut  up  here. 
How  dark  and  stuffy  it  is,  and  how  we  are 
crowded,  and  what  a  stupid  lot  the  other 
grains  are !    I'm  tired  of  it,  I  must  say." 

"  We  are  all  in  the  same  sack,"  said  the  learned 
grain,  very  quietly. 

It  was  a  good  many  days  after  that,  that  some- 


The  Proud  Little  Grain  of  Wheat    193 

thing  happened.  Quite  early  in  the  morning,  a 
man  and  a  boy  came  into  the  granary,  and  moved 
the  sack  of  wheat  from  its  place,  wakening  all 
the  grains  from  their  last  nap. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  "  said  the  proud  grain. 
"  Who  is  daring  to  disturb  us  ?  " 

"  Hush ! "  whispered  the  learned  grain,  in  the 
most  solemn  manner.  "  Something  is  going  to 
happen.  Something  like  this  happened  to  some- 
body  belonging  to  me  long  ago.  I  seem  to  re- 
member it  when  I  think  very  hard.  I  seem  to  re- 
member something  about  one  of  my  family  being 
sown." 

"  What  is  sown  ?  "  demanded  the  other  grain. 

"  It  is  being  thrown  into  the  earth,"  began  the 
.earned  grain. 

Oh,  what  a  passion  the  proud  grain  got  into ! 
'*  Into  the  earth  ?  "  she  shrieked  out.  "  Into  the 
common  earth  ?  The  earth  is  nothing  but  dirt, 
and  I  am  not  a  common  grain  of  wheat.  I  won't 
be  sown !  I  will  not  be  sown !  How  dare  any- 
one sow  me  against  my  will!  I  would  rather 
stay  in  the  sack." 

But  just  as  she  was  saying  it,  she  was  thrown 
out  with  the  learned  grain  and  some  others  into 
another  dark  place,  and  carried  off  by  the  farmer, 
in  spite  of  her  temper;  for  the  farmer  could  not 
hear  her  voice  at  all,  and  wouldn't  have  minded 
if  he  had,  because  he  knew  she  was  only  a  grain 


194    The  Proud  Little  Grain  of  Wheat 

of  wheat,  and  ought  to  be  sown,  so  that  some 
good  might  come  of  her. 

Well,  she  was  carried  out  to  a  large  field  in  the 
pouch  which  the  farmer  wore  at  his  belt.  The 
field  had  been  ploughed,  and  there  was  a  sweet 
smell  of  fresh  earth  in  the  air ;  the  sky  was  a 
deep,  deep  blue,  but  the  air  was  cool  and  the  few 
leaves  on  the  trees  were  brown  and  dry,  and 
looked  as  if  they  had  been  left  over  from  last  year. 

"  Ah  1 "  said  the  learned  grain.  "  It  was  just 
such  a  day  as  this  when  my  grandfather,  or  my 
father,  or  somebody  else  related  to  me,  was  sown. 
I  think  I  remember  that  it  was  called  Early 
Spring." 

"  As  for  me,"  said  the  proud  grain,  fiercely,  "  I 
should  like  to  see  the  man  who  would  dare  to 
sow  me ! " 

At  that  very  moment,  the  farmer  put  his  big, 
brown  hand  into  the  bag  and  threw  her,  as  she 
thought,  at  least  half  a  mile  from  them. 

He  had  not  thrown  her  so  far  as  that,  however, 
and  she  landed  safely  in  the  shadow  of  a  clod  of 
rich  earth,  which  the  sun  had  warmed  through 
and  through.  She  was  quite  out  of  breath  and 
very  dizzy  at  first,  but  in  a  few  seconds  she  began 
to  feel  better  and  could  not  help  looking  around, 
in  spite  of  her  anger,  to  see  if  there  was  anyone 
near  to  talk  to.  But  she  saw  no  one,  and  so  be- 
gan to  scold  as  usual. 


The  Proud  Little  Grain  of  Wheat    195 

"  They  not  only  sow  me,"  she  called  out,  "  but 
they  throw  me  all  by  myself,  where  I  can  have 
no  company  at  all.     It  is  disgraceful." 

Then  she  heard  a  voice  from  the  other  side  of 
the  clod.  It  was  the  learned  grain,  who  had 
fallen  there  when  the  farmer  threw  her  out  of  his 
pouch. 

"  Don't  be  angry,"  it  said,  "  I  am  here.  We 
are  all  right  so  far.  Perhaps,  when  they  cover 
us  with  the  earth,  we  shall  be  even  nearer  to  each 
other  than  we  are  now." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  they  will  cover  us  with 
the  earth  ?  "  asked  the  proud  grain. 

"  Yes,"  was  the  answer.  "  And  there  we  shall 
lie  in  the  dark,  and  the  rain  will  moisten  us,  and 
the  sun  will  warm  us,  until  we  grow  larger  and 
larger,  and  at  last  burst  open ! " 

"  Speak  for  yourself,"  said  the  proud  grain ; 
"  I  shall  do  no  such  thing ! " 

But  it  all  happened  just  as  the  learned  grain 
had  said,  which  showed  what  a  wise  grain  it  was, 
and  how  much  it  had  found  out  just  by  thinking 
hard  and  remembering  all  it  could. 

Before  the  day  was  over,  they  were  covered 
snugly  up  with  the  soft,  fragrant,  brown  earth, 
and  there  they  lay  day  after  day. 

One  morning,  when  the  proud  grain  wakened, 
it  found  itself  wet  through  and  through  with  rain 
which  had  fallen  in  the  night,  and  the  next  day 


196    The  Proud  Little   Grain  of  Wheat 

the  sun  shone  down  and  warmed  it  so  that  it 
really  began  to  be  afraid  that  it  would  be  obliged 
to  grow  too  large  for  its  skin,  which  felt  a  little 
tight  for  it  already. 

It  said  nothing  of  this  to  the  learned  grain,  at 
first,  because  it  was  determined  not  to  burst  if  it 
could  help  it ;  but  after  the  same  thing  had  hap- 
pened a  great  many  times,  it  found,  one  morning, 
that  it  really  was  swelling,  and  it  felt  obliged  to 
tell  the  learned  grain  about  it. 

"  Well,"  it  said,  pettishly,  "  I  suppose  you  will 
be  glad  to  hear  that  you  were  right.  I  am  going 
to  burst.  My  skin  is  so  tight  now  that  it  doesn't 
fit  me  at  all,  and  I  know  I  can't  stand  another 
warm  shower  like  the  last." 

"  Oh  !  "  said  the  learned  grain,  in  a  quiet  way 
(really  learned  people  always  have  a  quiet  way), 
"  I  knew  I  was  right,  or  I  shouldn't  have  said  so. 
1  hope  you  don't  find  it  very  uncomfortable.  J 
think  I  myself  shall  burst  by  to-morrow." 

"  Of  course  I  find  it  uncomfortable,"  said  the 
proud  grain.  "  Who  wouldn't  find  it  uncomfort- 
able, to  be  two  or  three  sizes  too  small  for  one's 
self  !  Pouf !  Crack  !  There  I  go !  I  have  split 
up  all  up  my  right  side,  and  I  must  say  it's  a  re- 
lief." 

"  Crack !  Pouf !  so  have  I,"  said  the  learner* 
grain.  "  Now  we  must  begin  to  push  up  through 
the  earth.     1  am  sure  my  relation  did  that." 


The  Proud  Little  Grain  of  Wheat  197 

"  Well,  I  shouldn't  mind  getting  out  into  the 
air.     It  would  be  a  change  at  least." 

So  each  of  them  began  to  push  her  way- 
through  the  earth  as  strongly  as  she  could,  and, 
sure  enough,  it  was  not  long  before  the  proud 
grain  actually  found  herself  out  in  the  world 
again,  breathing  the  sweet  air,  under  the  blue 
sky,  across  which  fleecy  white  clouds  were  drift- 
ing, and  swift-winged,  happy  birds  darting. 

"  It  really  is  a  lovely  day,"  were  the  first  words 
the  proud  grain  said.  It  couldn't  help  it.  The 
sunshine  was  so  delightful,  and  the  birds  chirped 
and  twittered  so  merrily  in  the  bare  branches, 
and,  more  wonderful  than  all,  the  great  field  was 
brown  no  longer,  but  was  covered  with  millions 
of  little,  fresh  green  blades,  which  trembled  and 
bent  their  frail  bodies  before  the  light  wind. 

"This  is  an  improvement,"  said  the  proud 
grain. 

Then  there  was  a  little  stir  in  the  earth  beside 
it,  and  up  through  the  brown  mould  came  the 
learned  grain,  fresh,  bright,  green,  like  the  rest. 

"  I  told  you  I  was  not  a  common  grain  of  wheat," 
said  the  proud  one. 

"  You  are  not  a  grain  of  wheat  at  all  now,"  said 
the  learned  one,  modestly.  "  You  are  a  blade  of 
wheat,  and  there  are  a  great  many  others  like 
you." 

"  See  how  green  I  am !  "  said  the  proud  blade. 


iq8  The  Proud  Little  Grain  of  Wheat 

"  Yes,  you  are  very  green,"  said  its  compan- 
ion. "  You  will  not  be  so  green  when  you  are 
older." 

The  proud  grain,  which  must  be  called  a  blade 
now,  had  plenty  of  change  and  company  after 
this.  It  grew  taller  and  taller  every  day,  and 
made  a  great  many  new  acquaintances  as  the 
weather  grew  warmer.  These  were  little  gold 
and  green  beetles  living  near  it,  who  often  passed 
it,  and  now  and  then  stopped  to  talk  a  little  about 
their  children  and  their  journeys  under  the  soil. 
Birds  dropped  down  from  the  sky  sometimes  to 
gossip  and  twitter  of  the  nests  they  were  building 
in  the  apple-trees,  and  the  new  songs  they  were 
learning  to  sing. 

Once,  on  a  very  warm  day,  a  great  golden  but- 
terfly, floating  by  on  his  large  lovely  wings,  flut- 
tered down  softly  and  lit  on  the  proud  blade, 
who  felt  so  much  prouder  when  he  did  it  that 
she  trembled  for  joy. 

"  He  admires  me  more  than  all  the  rest  in  the 
field,  you  see,"  it  said,  haughtily.  "  That  is  be- 
cause I  am  so  green." 

"  If  I  were  you,"  said  the  learned  blade,  in  its 
modest  way,  "  I  believe  I  would  not  talk  so  much 
about  being  green.  People  will  make  such  ill- 
natured  remarks  when  one  speaks  often  of  one's 
self." 

"  I  am  above  such  people,"  said  the  proud  blade1 


The  Proud  Little  Grain  of  Wheat     199 

"  I  can  find  nothing  more  interesting  to  talk  of 
than  myself." 

As  time  went  on,  it  was  delighted  to  find  that 
it  grew  taller  than  any  other  blade  in  the  field, 
and  threw  out  other  blades ;  and  at  last  there 
grew  out  at  the  top  of  its  stalk  ever  so  many 
plump,  new  little  grains,  all  fitting  closely  to- 
gether, and  wearing  tight  little  green  covers. 

"  Look  at  me !  "  it  said  then.  "  1  am  the  queen 
of  all  the  wheat.     I  have  a  crown." 

"  No,"  said  its  learned  companion.  u  You  are 
now  an  ear  of  wheat." 

And  in  a  short  time  all  the  other  stalks  wore 
the  same  kind  of  crown,  and  it  found  out  that 
the  learned  blade  was  right,  and  that  it  was  only 
an  ear,  after  all. 

And  now  the  weather  had  grown  still  warmer 
and  the  trees  were  covered  with  leaves,  and  the 
birds  sang  and  built  their  nests  in  them  and  laid 
their  little  blue  eggs,  and  in  time,  wonderful  to 
relate,  there  came  baby  birds,  that  were  always 
opening  their  mouths  for  food,  and  crying  "  peep, 
peep,"  to  their  fathers  and  mothers.  There  were 
more  butterflies  floating  about  on  their  amber  and 
purple  wings,  and  the  gold  and  green  beetles 
were  so  busy  they  had  no  time  to  talk, 

"  Well ! "  said  the  proud  ear  of  wheat  (you  re- 
member it  was  an  ear  by  this  time)  to  its  com- 
panion    one  day.     "  You    see,  you    were  right 


200     The  Proud  Little  Grain  of  Wheat 

again.  I  am  not  so  green  as  I  was.  I  am  turn- 
ing  yellow — but  yellow  is  the  colour  of  gold,  and 
I  don't  object  to  looking  like  gold." 

"  You  will  soon  be  ripe,"  said  its  friend. 

"  And  what  will  happen  then  ?  " 

"  The  reaping  -  machine  will  come  and  cut  you 
down,  and  other  strange  things  wiJl  happen." 

"  There  I  make  a  stand,"  said  the  proud  ear. 
"  I  will  not  be  cut  down." 

But  it  was  just  as  the  wise  ear  said  it  would 
be.  Not  long  after  a  reaping  -  machine  was 
brought  and  driven  back  and  forth  in  the  fields, 
and  down  went  all  the  wheat  ears  before  the 
great  knives.  But  it  did  not  hurt  the  wheat,  of 
course,  and  only  the  proud  ear  felt  angry. 

"  I  am  the  colour  of  gold,"  it  said,  "  and  yet 
they  have  dared  to  cut  me  down.  What  will  they 
do  next,  I  wonder?" 

What  they  did  next  was  to  bunch  it  up  with 
other  wheat  and  tie  it  and  stack  it  together,  and 
then  it  was  carried  in  a  waggon  and  laid  in  the 
barn. 

Then  there  was  a  great  bustle  after  a  while. 
The  farmer's  wife  and  daughters  and  her  two 
servants  began  to  work  as  hard  as  they  could. 

"  The  threshers  are  coming,"  they  said,  "  and 
we  must  make  plenty  of  things  for  them  to  eat." 

So  they  made  pies  and  cakes  and  bread  until 
their  cupboards  were  full;  and  surely  enough  the 


The  Proud  Little  Grain  of  Wheat    201 

threshers  did  come  with  the  threshing-machine, 
which  was  painted  red,  and  went  "  Puff !  puff ! 
puff!  rattle !  rattle ! "  all  the  time.  And  the 
proud  wheat  was  threshed  out  by  it,  and  found 
itself  in  grains  again  and  very  much  out  of 
breath. 

"  I  look  almost  as  I  was  at  first,"  it  said ;  "  only 
there  are  so  many  of  me.  I  am  grander  than 
ever  now.  I  was  only  one  grain  of  wheat  at  first, 
and  now  I  am  at  least  fifty." 

When  it  was  put  into  a  sack,  it  managed  to  get 
all  its  grains  together  in  one  place,  so  that  it 
might  feel  as  grand  as  possible.  It  was  so  proud 
that  it  felt  grand,  however  much  it  was  knocked 
about. 

It  did  not  lie  in  the  sack  very  long  this  time 
before  something  else  happened.  One  morning 
it  heard  the  farmer's  wife  saying  to  the  coloured 
boy: 

"  Take  this  yere  sack  of  wheat  to  the  mill, 
Jerry.  I  want  to  try  it  when  I  make  that  thar 
cake  for  the  boarders.  Them  two  children 
from  Washington  city  are  powerful  hands  for 
cake." 

So  Jerry  lifted  the  sack  up  and  threw  it  over 
his  shoulder,  and  carried  it  out  into  the  spring, 
waggon. 

"  Now  we  are  going  to  travel,"  said  the  proud 
wheat.    "  Don't  let  us  be  separated/* 


202     The  Proud  Little  Gram  of  Wheat 

At  that  minute,  there  were  heard  two  young 
voices.,  shouting: — 

"  Jerry,  take  us  in  the  waggon  !  Let  us  go  to 
mill,  Jerry.     We  want  to  go  to  mill." 

And  these  were  the  very  two  boys  who  had 
played  in  the  granary  and  made  so  much  noise 
the  summer  before.  They  had  grown  a  little 
bigger,  and  their  yellow  hair  was  longer,  but  they 
looked  just  as  they  used  to,  with  their  strong 
little  legs  and  big  brown  eyes,  and  their  sailor 
hats  set  so  far  back  on  their  heads  that  it  was  a 
wonder  they  stayed  on.  And  gracious !  how  they 
shouted  and  ran. 

"  What  does  yer  mar  say  ?  "  asked  Jerry. 

"  Says  we  can  go ! "  shouted  both  at  once,  as 
if  Jerry  had  been  deaf,  which  he  wasn't  at  all — 
quite  the  contrary. 

So  Jerry,  who  was  very  good  -  natured,  lifted 
them  in,  and  cracked  his  whip,  and  the  horses 
started  off.  It  was  a  long  ride  to  the  mill,  but 
Lionel  and  Vivian  were  not  too  tired  to  shout 
again  when  they  reached  it.  They  shouted  at 
sight  of  the  creek  and  the  big  wheel  turning 
round  and  round  slowly,  with  the  water  dashing 
and  pouring  and  foaming  over  it. 

"  What  turns  the  wheel  ?  "  asked  Vivian. 

'*  The  water,  honey,"  said  Jerry. 

w  What  turns  the  water  ?  " 

"  Well  now,  honey,"  said  Jerry,  "  you  hev  me 


The  Proud  Little  Grain  of  Wheat     203 

thar.  I  don't  know  nuffin  'bout  it.  Lors-a-massy, 
what  a  boy  you  is  fur  axin  dif'cult  questions." 

Then  he  carried  the  sack  in  to  the  miller,  and 
said  he  would  wait  until  the  wheat  was  ground. 

"  Ground  !  "  said  the  proud  wheat.  "  We  are 
going  to  be  ground.  I  hope  it  is  agreeable.  Let 
us  keep  close  together." 

They  did  keep  close  together,  but  it  wasn't 
very  agreeable  to  be  poured  into  a  hopper  and 
then  crushed  into  fine  powder  between  two  big 
stones. 

"  Makes  nice  flour,"  said  the  miller,  rubbing  it 
between  his  fingers. 

"  Flour!"  said  the  wheat — which  was  wheat  no 
longer.  "  Now  I  am  flour,  and  I  am  finer  than 
ever.  How  white  I  am !  I  really  would  rather 
be  white  than  green  or  gold  colour.  I  wonder 
where  the  learned  grain  is,  and  if  it  is  as  fine  and 
white  as  I  am  ?  " 

But  the  learned  grain  and  her  family  had  been 
laid  away  in  the  granary  for  seed  wheat. 

Before  the  waggon  reached  the  house  again,  the 
two  boys  were  fast  asleep  in  the  bottom  of  it,  and 
had  to  be  helped  out  just  as  the  sack  was,  and 
carried  in. 

The  sack  was  taken  into  the  kitchen  at  once 
and  opened,  and  even  in  its  wheat  days  the  flour 
had  never  been  so  proud  as  it  was  when  it  heard 
the  farmer's  wife  say — 


204     The  Proud  Little  Grain  of  Wheat 

"  I'm  going  to  make  this  into  cake." 

"  Ah !  "  it  said ;  "  I  thought  so.  Now  I  shall 
be  rich,  and  admired  by  everybody." 

The  farmer's  wife  then  took  some  of  it  out  in  a 
large  white  bowl,  and  after  that  she  busied  her- 
self beating  eggs  and  sugar  and  butter  all  to- 
gether in  another  bowl:  and  after  a  while  she 
took  the  flour  and  beat  it  in  also. 

"  Now  I  am  in  grand  company,"  said  the  flour. 
"  The  eggs  and  butter  are  the  colour  of  gold,  the 
sugar  is  like  silver  or  diamonds.  This  is  the 
very  society  for  me." 

"  The  cake  looks  rich,"  said  one  of  the  daugh- 
ters. 

"  It's  rather  too  rich  for  them  children,"  said 
her  mother.  "  But  Lawsey,  I  dunno,  neither. 
Nothin'  don't  hurt  'em.  I  reckon  they  could  eat 
a  panel  of  rail  fence  and  come  to  no  harm." 

"  I'm  rich,"  said  the  flour  to  itself.  "  That  is 
just  what  I  intended  from  the  first.  I  am  rich 
and  I  am  a  cake." 

Just  then,  a  pair  of  big  brown  eyes  came  and 
peeped  into  it.  They  belonged  to  a  round  little 
head  with  a  mass  of  tangled  curls  all  over  it— 
they  belonged  to  Vivian. 

"  What's  that?"  he  asked. 

"  Cake." 

"Who  made  it?" 

**  I  did" 


The  Proud  Little  Grain  of  Wheat     205 

"  I  like  you,"  said  Vivian.  "  You're  such  a  nice 
woman.  Who's  going  to  eat  any  of  it?  Is 
Lionel?" 

"  I'm  afraid  it's  too  rich  for  boys,"  said  the 
woman,  but  she  laughed  and  kissed  him. 

"  No,"  said  Vivian.     "  I'm  afraid  it  isn't." 

"  I  shall  be  much  too  rich,"  said  the  cake, 
angrily.  "  Boys,  indeed.  I  was  made  for  some- 
thing better  than  boys." 

After  that,  it  was  poured  into  a  cake-mould, 
and  put  into  the  oven,  where  it  had  rather  an  un- 
pleasant time  of  it.  It  was  so  hot  in  there  that  if 
the  farmer's  wife  had  not  watched  it  carefully,  it 
would  have  been  burned. 

"  But  I  am  cake,"  it  said,  "  and  of  the  richest 
kind,  so  I  can  bear  it,  even  if  it  is  uncomfortable." 

When  it  was  taken  out,  it  really  was  cake,  and 
it  felt  as  if  it  was  quite  satisfied.  Everyone  who 
came  into  the  kitchen  and  saw  it,  said — 

"  Oh,  what  a  nice  cake  !  How  well  your  new 
flour  has  done !  " 

But  just  once,  while  it  was  cooling,  it  had  a 
curious,  disagreeable  feeling.  It  found,  all  at 
once,  that  the  two  boys,  Lionel  and  Vivian,  had 
come  quietly  into  the  kitchen  and  stood  near  the 
table,  looking  at  the  cake  with  their  great  eyes 
wide  open  and  their  little  red  mouths  open,  too. 

"  Dear  me,"  it  said.  "  How  nervous  I  feel — 
actually  nervous.     What  great  eyes  they  have, 


206      The  Proud  Little   Grain  of  Wheat 

and  how  they  shine !  and  what  are  those  sharp 
white  things  in  their  mouths  ?  I  really  don't  like 
them  to  look  at  me  in  that  way.  It  seems  like 
something  personal.  I  wish  the  farmer's  wife 
would  come." 

Such  a  chill  ran  over  it,  that  it  was  quite  cool 
when  the  woman  came  in,  and  she  put  it  away  in 
the  cupboard  on  a  plate. 

But,  that  very  afternoon,  she  took  it  out  again 
and  set  it  on  the  table  on  a  glass  cake-stand.  She 
put  some  leaves  around  it  to  make  it  look  nice, 
and  it  noticed  there  were  a  great  many  other 
things  on  the  table,  and  they  all  looked  fresh  and 
bright. 

"  This  is  all  in  my  honour,"  it  said.  "  They 
know  I  am  rich." 

Then  several  people  came  in  and  took  chairs 
around  the  table. 

"  They  all  come  to  sit  and  look  at  me,"  said  the 
vain  cake.  "  I  wish  the  learned  grain  could  see 
me  now." 

There  was  a  little  high-chair  on  each  side  of  the 
table,  and  at  first  these  were  empty,  but  in  a  few 
minutes  the  door  opened  and  in  came  the  two 
little  boys.  They  had  pretty,  clean  dresses  on, 
and  their  "  bangs  "  and  curls  were  bright  with  be- 
ing brushed. 

"  Even  they  have  been  dressed  up  to  do  me 
honour,"  thought  the  cake. 


"THERE'S  THE  CAKE,"  BB  SAID. 


The  Proud  Little  Grain  of  Wheat    209 

But,  the  next  minute,  it  began  to  feel  quite 
nervous  again.  Vivian's  chair  was  near  the  glass 
stand,  and  when  he  had  climbed  up  and  seated 
himself,  he  put  one  elbow  on  the  table  and  rested 
his  fat  chin  on  his  fat  hand,  and  fixing  his  eyes  on 
the  cake,  sat  and  stared  at  it  in  such  an  unnatu- 
rally quiet  manner  for  some  seconds,  that  any  cake 
might  well  have  felt  nervous. 

"  There's  the  cake,"  he  said,  at  last,  in  such  a 
deeply  thoughtful  voice  that  the  cake  felt  faint 
with  anger. 

Then  a  remarkable  thing  happened.  Some  one 
drew  the  stand  toward  them  and  took  the  knife 
and  cut  out  a  large  slice  of  the  cake. 

"  Go  away,"  said  the  cake,  though  no  one  heard 
it.  "  I  am  cake !  I  am  rich  I  I  am  not  for  boys ! 
How  dare  you  ?  " 

Vivian  stretched  out  his  hand;  he  took  the 
slice ;  he  lifted  it  up,  and  then  the  cake  saw  his 
red  mouth  open — yes,  open  wider  than  it  could 
have  believed  possible — wide  enough  to  show  two 
dreadful  rows  of  little  sharp  white  things. 

"  Good  gra "  it  began. 

But  it  never  said  "cious."  Never  at  zV.  For 
in  two  minutes  Vivian  had  eaten  it ! ! 

And  there  was  an  end  of  its  airs  and  graes. 


BEHIND  THE  WHITE  BRICK 


BEHIND  THE  WHITE  BRICK 

IT  began  with  Aunt  Hetty's  being  out  of  tem- 
per, which,  it  must  be  confessed,  was  nothing 
new.  At  its  best,  Aunt  Hetty's  temper  was  none 
of  the  most  charming,  and  this  morning  it  was  at 
its  worst.  She  had  awakened  to  the  conscious- 
ness of  having  a  hard  day's  work  before  her,  and 
she  had  awakened  late,  and  so  everything  had 
gone  wrong  from  the  first.  There  was  a  sharp 
ring  in  her  voice  when  she  came  to  Jem's  bed- 
room door  and  called  out,  "Jemima,  get  up  this 
minute ! " 

Jem  knew  what  to  expect  when  Aunt  Hetty  be- 
gan a  day  by  calling  her  "  Jemima."  It  was  one 
of  the  poor  child's  grievances  that  she  had  been 
given  such  an  ugly  name.  In  all  the  books  she 
had  read,  and  she  had  read  a  great  many,  Jem 
never  had  met  a  heroine  who  was  called  Jemima. 
But  it  had  been  her  mother's  favorite  sister's 
name,  and  so  it  had  fallen  to  her  lot.  Her  mother 
always  called  her  "  Jem,"  or  "  Mimi,"  which  was 
much  prettier,  and  even  Aunt  Hetty  only  reserved 
Jemima  for  unpleasant  state  occasions. 


214  Behind  the  White  Brick 

It  was  a  dreadful  day  to  Jem.  Her  mother  was 
not  at  home,  and  would  not  be  until  night.  She 
had  been  called  away  unexpectedly,  and  had  been 
obliged  to  leave  Jem  and  the  baby  to  Aunt  Het- 
ty's mercies. 

So  Jem  found  herself  busy  enough.  Scarcely 
had  she  finished  doing  one  thing,  when  Aunt 
Hetty  told  her  to  begin  another.  She  wiped 
dishes  and  picked  fruit  and  attended  to  the  baby ; 
and  when  baby  had  gone  to  sleep,  and  everything 
else  seemed  disposed  of,  for  a  time,  at  least,  she 
was  so  tired  that  she  was  glad  to  sit  down. 

And  then  she  thought  of  the  book  she  had  been 
reading  the  night  before  —  a  certain  delightful 
story  book,  about  a  little  girl  whose  name  was 
Flora,  and  who  was  so  happy  and  rich  and  pretty 
and  good  that  Jem  had  likened  her  to  the  little 
princesses  one  reads  about,  to  whose  christening 
feast  every  fairy  brings  a  gift. 

"  I  shall  have  time  to  finish  my  chapter  before 
dinner-time  comes,"  said  Jem,  and  she  sat  down 
snugly  in  one  corner  of  the  wide,  old  fashioned 
fireplace. 

But  she  had  not  read  more  than  two  pages  be- 
fore something  dreadful  happened.  Aunt  Hetty 
came  into  the  room  in  a  great  hurry — in  such  a 
hurry,  indeed,  that  she  caught  her  foot  in  the 
matting  and  fell,  striking  her  elbow  sharply 
against  a  chair,  which  so  upset  her  temper  that 


Behind  the  White  Brick  215 

the  moment  she  found  herself  on  her  feet  she  flew 
at  Jem. 

"  What ! "  she  said,  snatching  the  book  from 
her,  "  reading  again,  when  I  am  running  all  over 
the  house  for  you?"  And  she  flung  the  pretty 
little  blue  covered  volume  into  the  fire. 

Jem  sprang  to  rescue  it  with  a  cry,  but  it  was 
impossible  to  reach  it ;  it  had  fallen  into  a  great 
hollow  of  red  coal,  and  the  blaze  caught  it  at 
once. 

"  You  are  a  wicked  woman  ! "  cried  Jem,  in  a 
dreadful  passion,  to  Aunt  Hetty.  "  You  are  a 
wicked  woman." 

Then  matters  reached  a  climax.  Aunt  Hetty 
boxed  her  ears,  pushed  her  back  on  her  little  foot- 
stool, and  walked  out  of  the  room. 

Jem  hid  her  face  on  her  arms  and  cried  as  if 
her  heart  would  break.  She  cried  until  her  eyes 
were  heavy,  and  she  thought  she  would  be  obliged 
to  go  to  sleep.  But  just  as  she  was  thinking  of 
going  to  sleep,  something  fell  down  the  chimney 
and  made  her  look  up.  It  was  a  piece  of  mortar, 
and  it  brought  a  good  deal  of  soot  with  it.  She 
bent  forward  and  looked  up  to  see  where  it  had 
come  from.  The  chimney  was  so  very  wide  that 
this  was  easy  enough.  She  could  see  where  the 
mortar  had  fallen  from  the  side  and  left  a  white 
patch. 

"  How  white  it  looks  against  the  black ! "  said 


216  Behind  the  White  Brick 

Jem  ;  "  it  is  like  a  white  brick  among  the  black 
ones.  What  a  queer  place  a  chimney  is !  I  can 
see  a  bit  of  the  blue  sky,  I  think." 

And  then  a  funny  thought  came  into  her  fanci. 
ful  little  head.  What  a  many  things  were  burned 
in  the  big  fireplace  and  vanished  in  smoke  or 
tinder  up  the  chimney !  Where  did  everything 
go  ?  There  was  Flora,  for  instance — Flora  who 
was  represented  on  the  frontispiece — with  lovely, 
soft,  flowing  hair,  and  a  little  fringe  on  her  pretty 
round  forehead,  crowned  with  a  circlet  of  dais- 
ies, and  a  laugh  in  her  wide  -  awake  round  eyes. 
Where  was  she  by  this  time?  Certainly  there 
was  nothing  left  of  her  in  the  fire.  Jem  almost 
began  to  cry  again  at  the  thought. 

"  It  was  too  bad,"  she  said.  "  She  was  so  pretty 
and  funny,  and  I  did  like  her  so." 

I  daresay  it  scarcely  will  be  credited  by  unbe- 
lieving people  when  I  tell  them  what  happened 
next,  it  was  such  a  very  singular  thing,  indeed. 

Jem  felt  herself  gradually  lifted  off  her  little 
footstool. 

"  Oh  !  "  she  said,  timidly,  "  I  feel  very  light." 
She  did  feel  light,  indeed.  She  felt  so  light  that 
she  was  sure  she  was  rising  gently  in  the  air. 

"  Oh,"  she  said  again,  "  how — how  very  light  I 
feel !     Oh,  dear,  I'm  going  up  the  chimney !  " 

It  was  rather  strange  that  she  never  thought  of 
calling  for  help,  but  she  did  not.     She  was  not 


Behind  the  White  Brick  217 

easily  frightened  ;  and  now  she  was  only  wonder- 
fully astonished,  as  she  remembered  afterwards. 
She  shut  her  eyes  tight  and  gave  a  little  gasp. 

"  I've  heard  Aunt  Hetty  talk  about  the  draught 
drawing  things  up  the  chimney,  but  I  never  knew 
it  was  as  strong  as  this,"  she  said. 

She  went  up,  up,  up,  quietly  and  steadily,  and 
without  any  uncomfortable  feeling  at  al1 ;  and 
then  all  at  once  she  stopped,  feeling  that  her  feet 
rested  against  something  solid.  She  opened  her 
eyes  and  looked  about  her,  and  there  she  was, 
standing  right  opposite  the  white  brick,  her  feet 
on  a  tiny  ledge. 

"  Well,"  she  snd,  "this  is  funny." 

But  the  next  thing  that  happened  was  funnier 
still.  She  found  that,  without  thinking  what  she 
was  doing,  she  was  knocking  on  the  white  brick 
with  her  knackles,  as  if  it  was  a  door  and  she 
expected  somebody  to  open  it.  The  next  minute 
she  heard  footsteps,  and  then  a  sound,  as  if  some 
one  was  drawing  back  a  little  bolt. 

"It  is  a  door,"  said  Jem,  "and  somebody  is 
going  to  open  it." 

The  white  brick  moved  a  little,  and  some  more 
mortar  and  soot  fell ;  then  the  brick  moved  a  little 
more,  and  then  it  slid  aside  and  left  an  open 
space. 

"  It's  a  room  !  "  cried  Jem.  "  There's  a  room 
behind  it ! " 


218  Behind  the  White  Brick 

And  so  there  was,  and  before  the  open  space 
stood  a  pretty  little  girl,  with  long  lovely  hair 
and  a  fringe  on  her  forehead.  Jem  clasped  her 
hands  in  amazement.  It  was  Flora  herself,  as  she 
looked  in  the  picture,  and  Flora  stood  laughing 
and  nodding. 

"  Come  in,"  she  said.     "  I  thought  it  was  you." 

"  But  how  can  I  come  in  through  such  a  little 
place  ?  "  asked  Jem. 

"  Oh,  that  is  easy  enough,"  said  Flora.  "  Here, 
give  me  your  hand." 

Jem  did  as  she  told  her,  and  found  that  it  was 
easy  enough.  In  an  instant  she  had  passed 
through  the  opening,  the  white  brick  had  gone 
back  to  its  place,  and  she  was  standing  by  Flora's 
side  in  a  large  room  —  the  nicest  room  she  had 
ever  seen.  It  was  big  and  lofty  and  light,  and 
there  were  all  kinds  of  delightful  things  in  it — 
books  and  flowers  and  playthings  and  pictures, 
and  in  one  corner  a  great  cage  full  of  love- 
birds. 

"  Have  I  ever  seen  it  before  ? "  asked  Jem, 
glancing  slowly  round. 

"Yes,"  said  Flora;  "you  saw  it  last  night — in 
your  mind.     Don't  you  remember  it  ?  " 

Jem  shook  her  head. 

"  I  feel  as  if  I  did,  but " 

"  Why,"  said  Flora,  laughing,  "  it's  my  room, 
the  one  you  read  about  last  night." 


Behind  the  White  Brick  219 

"  So  it  is,"  said  Jem.  "  But  how  did  you  come 
here  ?  " 

"  I  can't  tell  you  that ;  I  myself  don't  know. 
But  I  am  here,  and  so" — rather  mysteriously — 
"  are  a  great  many  other  things." 

■'  Are  they  ?  "  said  Jem,  very  much  interested. 
"What  things?  Burned  things?  I  was  just 
wondering " 

"  Not  only  burned  things,"  said  Flora,  nodding. 
"Just  come  with  me  and  I'll  show  you  some- 
thing." 

She  led  the  way  out  of  the  room  and  down  a 
little  passage  with  several  doors  in  each  side  of  it, 
and  she  opened  one  door  and  showed  Jem  what 
was  on  the  other  side  of  it.  That  was  a  room, 
too,  and  this  time  it  was  funny  as  well  as  pretty. 
Both  floor  and  walls  were  padded  with  rose  color, 
and  the  floor  was  strewn  with  toys.  There  were 
big  soft  balls,  rattles,  horses,  woolly  dogs,  and  a 
doll  or  so  ;  there  was  one  low  cushioned  chair  and 
a  low  table. 

"  You  can  come  in,"  said  a  shrill  little  voice  be- 
hind the  door,  "  only  mind  you  don't  tread  on 
things." 

"  What  a  funny  little  voice ! "  said  Jem,  but 
she  had  no  sooner  said  it  than  she  jumped 
back. 

The  owner  of  the  voice,  who  had  just  come  for- 
ward, was  no  other  than  Baby. 


220  Behind  the  White  Brick 

"Why,"  exclaimed  Jem,  beginning  to  feei 
frightened,  "  I  left  you  fast  asleep  in  your  crib." 

"  Did  you  ?  "  said  Baby,  somewhat  scornfully. 
"That's  just  the  way  with  you  grown-up  peo- 
ple. You  think  you  know  everything,  and  yet 
ycu  haven't  discretion  enough  to  know  when 
a  pin  is  sticking  into  one.  You'd  know  soon 
enough  if  you  had  one  sticking  into  your  own 
back." 

"  But  I'm  not  grown  up,"  stammered  Jem ; 
"  and  when  you  are  at  home  you  can  neither  walk 
nor  talk.     You're  not  six  months  old." 

"  Well,  miss,"  retorted  Baby,  whose  wrongs 
seemed  to  have  soured  her  disposition  somewhat, 
"  you  have  no  need  to  throw  that  in  my  teeth ; 
you  were  not  six  months  old,  either,  when  you 
were  my  age." 

Jem  could  not  help  laughing. 

"  You  haven't  got  any  teeth,"  she  said. 

"  Haven't  I  ? "  said  Baby,  and  she  displayed 
two  beautiful  rows  with  some  haughtiness  of 
manner.  "  When  I  am  up  here,"  she  said,  "  I  am 
supplied  with  the  modern  conveniences,  and 
that's  why  I  never  complain.  Do  I  ever  cry 
when  I  am  asleep?  It's  not  falling  asleep  I  object 
to,  it's  falling  awake." 

"  Wait  a  minute,"  said  Jem.  "  Are  you  asleep 
now  ?  " 

"  I'm  what  you  call,  asleep.     I  can  only  come 


Behind  the  White  Brick  221 

here  when  I'm  what  you  call  asleep.  Asleep,  in- 
deed.'  It's  no  wonder  we  always  cry  when  we 
have  to  fall  awake." 

"  But  we  don't  mean  to  be  unkind  to  you,"  pro- 
tested Jem,  meekly. 

She  could  not  help  thinking  Baby  was  very 
severe. 

"  Don't  mean  !  "  said  Baby.  "  Well,  why  don't 
you  think  more,  then  ?  How  would  you  like  to 
have  all  the  nice  things  snatched  away  from  you, 
and  all  the  old  rubbish  packed  off  on  you,  as  if 
you  hadn't  any  sense  ?  How  would  you  like  to 
have  to  sit  and  stare  at  things  you  wanted,  and 
not  to  be  able  to  reach  them,  or,  if  you  did  reach 
them,  have  them  fall  out  of  your  hand,  and  roll 
away  in  the  most  unfeeling  manner  ?  And  then 
be  scolded  and  called  '  cross  ! '  It's  no  wonder 
we  are  bald.  You'd  be  bald  yourself.  It's  trouble 
and  worry  that  keep  us  bald  until  we  can  begin  to 
take  care  of  ourselves ;  I  had  more  hair  than  this 
at  first,  but  it  fell  off,  as  well  it  might.  No  phi- 
losopher ever  thought  of  that,  I  suppose ! " 

"  Well,"  said  Jem,  in  despair,  "  I  hope  you  en- 
joy yourself  when  you  are  here  ?  " 

"Yes,  I  do,"  answered  Baby.  "That's  one 
comfort.  There  is  nothing  to  knock  my  head 
against,  and  things  have  patent  stoppers  on  them, 
so  that  they  can't  roll  away,  and  everything  is 
soft  and  easy  to  pick  up." 


222  Behind  the  White  Brick 

There  was  a  slight  pause  after  this,  and  Baby 
seemed  to  cool  down. 

"  I  suppose  you  would  like  me  to  show  you 
round  ?  "  she  said. 

"  Not  if  you  have  any  objection,"  replied  Jem, 
who  was  rather  subdued. 

"  I  would  as  soon  do  it  as  not,"  said  Baby. 
"  You  are  not  as  bad  as  some  people,  though  you 
do  get  my  clothes  twisted  when  you  hold  me." 

Upon  the  whole,  she  seemed  rather  proud  of 
her  position.  It  was  evident  she  quite  regarded 
herself  as  hostess.  She  held  her  small  bald  head 
very  high  indeed,  as  she  trotted  on  before  them. 
She  stopped  at  the  first  door  she  came  to,  and 
knocked  three  times.  She  was  obliged  to  stand 
upon  tiptoe  to  reach  the  knocker. 

"  He's  sure  to  be  at  home  at  this  time  of  year," 
she  remarked.     "  This  is  the  busy  season." 

"  Who's  '  he '  ?  "  inquired  Jem. 

But  Flora  only  laughed  at  Miss  Baby's  conse- 
quential air. 

"  S.  C,  to  be  sure,"  was  the  answer,  as  the 
young  lady  pointed  to  the  door-plate,  upon  which 
Jem  noticed,  for  the  first  time,  "  S.  C."  in  very 
large  letters. 

The  door  opened,  apparently  without  assist- 
ance, and  they  entered  the  apartment. 

"  Good  gracious ! "  exclaimed  Jem,  the  next 
minute.     "  Good^^i-  gracious ! " 


Behind  the  White  Brick  223 

She  might  well  be  astonished.  It  was  such  a 
long  room  that  she  could  not  see  to  the  end  of  it, 
and  it  was  piled  up  from  floor  to  ceiling  with  toys 
of  every  description,  and  there  was  such  bustle 
and  buzzing  in  it  that  it  was  quite  confusing. 
The  bustle  and  buzzing  arose  from  a  very  curious 
cause,  too, — it  was  the  bustle  and  buzz  of  hun- 
dreds of  tiny  men  and  women  who  were  working 
at  little  tables  no  higher  than  mushrooms,— the 
pretty  tiny  women  cutting  out  and  sewing,  the 
pretty  tiny  men  sawing  and  hammering  and  all 
talking  at  once.  The  principal  person  in  the 
place  escaped  Jem's  notice  at  first ;  but  it  was 
not  long  before  she  saw  him, — a  little  old  gentle- 
man, with  a  rosy  face  and  sparkling  eyes,  sitting 
at  a  desk,  and  writing  in  a  book  almost  as  big  as 
himself.  He  was  so  busy  that  he  was  quite  ex- 
cited, and  had  been  obliged  to  throw  his  white 
fur  coat  and  cap  aside,  and  he  was  at  work  in  his 
red  waistcoat. 

"  Look  here,  if  you  please,"  piped  Baby.  "  I 
have  brought  some  one  to  see  you." 

When  he  turned  round,  Jem  recognized  him  at 
once. 

"Eh!  Eh!"  he  said.  "What!  What!  Who's 
this,  Tootsicums  ?  " 

Baby's  manner  became  very  acid  indeed. 

"  I  shouldn't  have  thought  you  would  have  said 
that,   Mr.  Claus,"  she  remarked.     "  I  can't  help 


224  Behind  the  White  Brick 

myself  down  below,  but  I  generally  have  my 
rights  respected  up  here.  I  should  like  to  know 
what  sane  godfather  or  godmother  would  give  one 
the  name  of  '  Tootsicums '  in  one's  baptism.  They 
are  bad  enough,  I  must  say ;  but  I  never  heard 
of  any  of  them  calling  a  person  '  Tootsicums.'  " 

"  Come,  come ! "  said  S.  C,  chuckling  com- 
fortably and  rubbing  his  hands.  "  Don't  be  too 
dignified, — it's  a  bad  thing.  And  don't  be  too 
fond  of  flourishing  your  rights  in  people's  faces, 
— that's  the  worst  of  all,  Miss  Midget.  Folks 
who  make  such  a  fuss  about  their  rights  turn 
Jhem  into  wrongs  sometimes." 

Then  he  turned  suddenly  to  Jem. 

"  You  are  the  little  girl  from  down  below,"  he 
said. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  answered  Jem.  "  I'm  Jem,  and  this 
is  my  friend  Flora, — out  of  the  blue  book." 

"  I'm  happy  to  make  her  acquaintance,"  said  S. 
C,  "  and  I'm  happy  to  make  yours.  You  are  a 
nice  child,  though  a  trifle  peppery.  I'm  very 
glad  to  see  you." 

"I'm  very  glad  indeed  to  see  you,  sir,"  said 
Jem.     "  I  wasn't  quite  sure " 

But  there  she  stopped,  feeling  that  it  would  be 
scarcely  polite  to  tell  him  that  she  had  begun  of 
late  years  to  lose  faith  in  him. 

But  S.  C.  only  chuckled  more  comfortably  than 
ever  and  rubbed  his  hands  again. 


«*Efl!  EH!"  HE  SAID.     "WHAT'  WHAT!   WHO'S  THIS,  TOOTSICUAIS?" 


•  * 


Behind  the  White  Brick  227 

"  Ho,  ho ! "  he  said.  "  You  know  who  I  am, 
then?" 

Jem  hesitated  a  moment,  wondering  whether  it 
would  not  be  taking  a  liberty  to  mention  his 
name  without  putting  "  Mr."  before  it ;  then  she 
remembered  what  Baby  had  called  him. 

"  Baby  called  you  '  Mr.  Claus,'  sir,"  she  replied ; 
"and  I  have  seen  pictures  of  you." 

"  To  be  sure,"  said  S.  C.  "  S.  Claus,  Esquire, 
of  Chimneyland.     How  do  you  like  me?" 

"  Very  much,"  answered  Jem  ;  "  very  much,  in- 
deed, sir." 

"  Glad  of  it !  Glad  of  it !  But  what  was  it  you 
were  going  to  say  you  were  not  quite  sure  of  ?  " 

Jem  blushed  a  little. 

"  I  was  not  quite  sure  that — that  you  were  true, 
sir.  At  least  I  have  not  been  quite  sure  since  I 
have  been  older." 

S.  C.  rubbed  the  bald  part  of  his  head  and  gave 
a  little  sigh. 

"  I  hope  I  have  not  hurt  your  feelings,  sir,"  fal- 
tered Jem,  who  was  a  very  kind  hearted  little 
soul. 

"  Well,  no,"  said  S.  C.  "  Not  exactly.  And  it 
is  not  your  fault  either.  It  is  natural,  I  suppose ; 
at  anyrate,  it  is  the  way  of  the  world.  People 
lose  their  belief  in  a  great  many  things  as  they 
grow  older;  but  that  does  not  make  the  things 
not  true,  thank  goodness!    and  their  faith  often 


228  Behind  the  White  Brick 

comes  back  after  a  while.  But,  bless  me  i '  he 
added,  briskly,  "  I'm  moralizing,  and  who  thanks 
a  man  for  doing  that  ?     Suppose " 

"  Black  eyes  or  blue,  sir  ?  "  said  a  tiny  voice 
close  to  them. 

Jem  and  Flora  turned  round,  and  saw  it  was 
one  of  the  small  workers  who  was  asking  the 
question. 

"Whom  for?"  inquired  S.  C. 

"  Little  girl  in  the  red  brick  house  at  the  cor- 
ner," said  the  workwoman  ;  "  name  of  Birdie." 

"  Excuse  me  a  moment,"  said  S.  C.  to  the  chil- 
dren, and  he  turned  to  the  big  book  and  began  to 
run  his  fingers  down  the  pages  in  a  business-like 
manner.  "  Ah  !  here  she  is ! "  he  exclaimed  at 
last.  "  Blue  eyes,  if  you  please,  Thistle,  and 
golden  hair.  And  let  it  be  a  big  one.  She  takes 
good  care  of  them." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Thistle ;  "  I  am  personally  ac- 
quainted with  several  dolls  in  her  family.  I  go 
to  parties  in  her  dolls'  house  sometimes  when  she 
is  fast  asleep  at  night,  and  they  all  speak  very 
highly  of  her.  She  is  most  attentive  to  them 
when  they  are  ill.  In  fact,  her  pet  doll  is  a  crip- 
ple, with  a  stiff  leg." 

She  ran  back  to  her  work  and  S.  C.  finished  his 
sentence. 

"  Suppose  I  show  you  my  establishment,"  he 
said.     "Come  with  me." 


Behind  the  White  Brick  229 

It  really  would  be  quite  impossible  to  describe 
the  wonderful  things  he  showed  them.  Jem's 
head  was  quite  in  a  whirl  before  she  had  seen 
one-half  of  them,  and  even  Baby  condescended  to 
become  excited. 

"  There  must  be  a  great  many  children  in  the 
world,  Mr.  Claus,"  ventured  Jem. 

"  Yes,  yes,  millions  of  'em ;  bless  'em,**  said  S. 
C,  growing  rosier  with  delight  at  the  very 
thought.  "  We  never  run  out  of  them,  that's  one 
comfort.  There's  a  large  and  varied  assortment 
always  on  hand.  Fresh  ones  every  year,  too,  so 
that  when  one  grows  too  old  there  is  a  new  one 
ready.  I  have  a  place  like  this  in  every  twelfth 
chimney.  Now  it's  boys,  now  it's  girls,  always 
one  or  t'other;  and  there's  no  end  of  playthings 
for  them,  too,  I'm  glad  to  say.  For  girls,  the 
great  thing  seems  to  be  dolls.  Blitzen!  what 
comfort  they  do  take  in  dolls!  but  the  boys  are 
for  horses  and  racket.** 

They  were  standing  near  a  table  where  a  worker 
was  just  putting  the  finishing  touch  to  the  dress 
of  a  large  wax  doll,  and  just  at  that  moment,  to 
Jem's  surprise,  she  set  it  on  the  floor,  upon  its 
feet,  quite  coolly. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  the  doll,  politely. 

Jem  quite  jumped. 

"You  can  join  the  rest  now  and  introduce 
yourself,"  said  the  worker. 


230  Behind  the  White  Brick 

■■The  doll  looked  over  her  shoulder  at  her  train. 

"  It  hangs  very  nicely,"  she  said.  "  I  hope  it's 
the  latest  fashion." 

"  Mine  never  talked  like  that,"  said  Flora. 
'  My  best  one  could  only  say  '  Mamma,'  and  it 
said  it  very  badly,  too." 

"  She  was  foolish  for  saying  it  at  all,"  remarked 
the  doll,  haughtily.  "  We  don't  talk  and  walk 
before  ordinary  people  ;  we  keep  our  accomplish- 
ments for  our  own  amusement,  and  for  the  amuse- 
ment  of  our  friends.  If  you  should  chance  to 
get  up  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  some  time, 
or  should  run  into  the  room  suddenly  some  day, 
after  you  have  left  it,  you  might  hear — but  what 
is  the  use  of  talking  to  human  beings?" 

"  You  know  a  great  deal,  considering  you  are 
only  just  finished,"  snapped  Baby,  who  really  was 
a  Tartar. 

"  I  was  finished,"  retorted  the  doll.  "  I  did 
not  begin  life  as  a  baby !  "  very  scornfully. 

"  Pooh !  "  said  Baby.  u  We  improve  as  we  get 
older." 

"I  hope  so,  indeed,"  answered  the  doll 
u  There  is  plenty  of  room  for  improvement." 
And  she  walked  away  in  great  state. 

S.  C.  looked  at  Baby  and  then  shook  his  head. 
"  I  shall  not  have  to  take  very  much  care  of  you," 
he  said,  absent-mindedly.  "  You  are  able  to  take 
pretty  good  care  of  yourself/" 


Behind  the  White  Brick  231 

"I  hope  I  am,"  said  Baoy,  tossing  her  head. 

S.  C.  gave  his  head  another  shake. 

"  Don't  take  too  good  care  of  yourself,"  he 
said.    "  That's  a  bad  thing,  too." 

He  showed  them  the  rest  of  his  wonders,  and 
then  went  with  them  to  the  door  to  bid  them 
good-bye. 

"  I  am  sure  we  are  very  much  obliged  to  you, 
Mr.  Claus,"  said  Jem,  gratefully.  "  1  shall  never 
again  think  you  are  not  true,  sir." 

S.  C.  patted  her  shoulder  quite  affectionately. 

"  That's  right,"  he  said.  "  Believe  in  things 
just  as  long  as  you  can,  my  dear.  Good-bye  un- 
til Christmas  Eve.  I  shall  see  you  then,  if  you 
don't  see  me." 

He  must  have  taken  quite  a  fancy  to  Jem,  for 
he  stood  looking  at  her,  and  seemed  very  reluc- 
tant to  close  the  door,  and  even  after  he  had 
closed  it,  and  they  had  turned  away,  he  opened 
it  a  little  again  to  call  to  her. 

"  Believe  in  things  as  long  as  you  can,  my 
dear." 

"  How  kind  he  is ! '  exclaimed  Jem,  full  of 
pleasure. 

Baby  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  Well  enough  in  his  way,"  she  said,  "  but 
rather  inclined  to  prose  and  be  old-fashioned." 

Jem  looked  at  her,  feeling  rather  frightened, 
but  she  said  nothing. 


232  Behind  the  White  Brick 

Baby  showed  very  little  interest  in  the  next 
room  she  took  them  to. 

"  I  don't  care  about  this  place,"  she  said,  as  she 
threw  open  the  door.  "  It  has  nothing  but  old 
things  in  it.  It  is  the  Nobody -knows- where 
room." 

She  had  scarcely  finished  speaking  before  Jem 
made  a  little  spring  and  picked  something  up. 

"  Here's  my  old  strawberry  pincushion  !  "  she 
cried  out.  And  then,  with  another  jump  and 
another  dash  at  two  or  three  other  things,  "  And 
here's  my  old  fairy-book  !  And  here's  my  little 
locket  I  lost  last  summer !  How  did  they  come 
here?" 

"  They  went  Nobody-knows-where,"  said  Baby. 

"  And  this  is  it." 

"  But  cannot  I  have  them  again  ?  "  asked  Jem. 

"  No,"  answered  Baby.  "  Things  that  go  to 
Nobody-knows-where  stay  there." 

"  Oh  !  "  sighed  Jem,  "  I  am  so  sorry." 

"  They  are  only  old  things,"  said  Baby. 

"  But  I  like  my  old  things,"  said  Jem.  "  I  love 
them.  And  there  is  mother's  needle  case.  I 
wish  I  might  take  that.  Her  dead  little  sister 
gave  it  to  her,  and  she  was  so  sorry  when  she 
lost  it." 

"  People  ought  to  take  better  care  of  their 
things,"  remarked  Baby. 

Jem  would  have  liked  to  stay  in  this  room  and 


Behind  the  White  Brick  233 

wander  about  among  her  old  favorites  for  a  long 
time,  but  Baby  was  in  a  hurry. 

"  You'd  better  come  away,"  she  said.  "  Sup- 
pose I  was  to  have  to  fall  awake  and  leave 
you?" 

The  next  place  they  went  into  was  the  most 
wonderful  of  all. 

"  This  is  the  Wish  room,"  said  Baby.  "  Your 
wishes  come  here — yours  and  mother's,  and  Aunt 
Hetty's  and  father's  and  mine.  When  did  you 
wish  that  ?  " 

Each  article  was  placed  under  a  glass  shade, 
and  labelled  with  the  words  and  name  of  the 
wishers.  Some  of  them  were  beautiful,  indeed; 
but  the  tall  shade  Baby  nodded  at  when  she  asked 
her  question  was  truly  alarming,  and  caused  Jem 
a  dreadful  pang  of  remorse.  Underneath  it  sat 
Aunt  Hetty,  with  her  mouth  stitched  up  so  that 
she  could  not  speak  a  word,  and  beneath  the  stand 
was  a  label  bearing  these  words,  in  large  black 
letters — 

"  I  wish  Aunt  Hetty's  mouth  was  sewed  up. 
Jem." 

"  Oh,  dear  ! "  cried  Jem,  in  great  distress.  "  How 
it  must  have  hurt  her  !  How  unkind  of  me  to  say 
it !  I  wish  I  hadn't  wished  it.  I  wish  it  would 
come  undone." 

She  had  no  sooner  said  it  than  her  wish  was 
gratified.     The  old  label  disappeared  and  a  new 


234  Behind  the  White  Brick 

one  showed  itself,  and  there  sat  Aunt  Hetty,  look- 
ing herself  again,  and  even  smiling. 

Jem  was  grateful  beyond  measure,  but  Baby 
seemed  to  consider  her  weak  minded. 

"  It  served  her  right,"  she  said. 

"  But  when,  after  looking  at  the  wishes  at  that 
end  of  the  room,  they  went  to  the  other  end,  her 
turn  came.  In  one  corner  stood  a  shade  with  a 
baby  under  it,  and  the  baby  was  Miss  Baby  her- 
self, but  looking  as  she  very  rarely  looked ;  in 
fact,  it  was  the  brightest,  best  tempered  baby  one 
could  imagine." 

"  I  wish  I  had  a  better  tempered  baby.  Mother," 
was  written  on  the  label. 

Baby  became  quite  red  in  the  face  with  anger 
and  confusion. 

"  That  wasn't  here  the  last  time  I  came,"  she 
said.     "  And  it  is  right  down  mean  in  mother  ! " 

This  was  more  than  Jem  could  bear. 

"  It  wasn't  mean,"  she  said.  "  She  couldn't  help 
it.  You  know  you  are  a  cross  baby — everybody 
says  so." 

Baby  turneu  i\vo  shades  redder. 

"  Mind  your  own  business,"  she  retorted.  "  It 
was  mean ;  and  as  to  that  silly  little  thing  being 
better  than  I  am,"  turning  up  her  small  nose, 
which  was  quite  turned  up  enough  by  Nature — 
"  I  must  say  I  don't  see  anvthing  so  very  grand 
about  her.     So,  there  !  '* 


Behind  the  White  Brick  235 

She  scarcely  condescended  to  speak  to  them 
while  they  remained  in  the  Wish  room,  and  when 
they  left  it,  and  went  to  the  last  door  in  the  pas- 
sage, she  quite  scowled  at  it. 

"  I  don't  know  whether  I  shall  open  it  at  all," 
she  said. 

"Why  not?"  asked  Flora.  "You  might  as 
well." 

"  It  is  the  Lost  pin  room,"  she  said.   "  I  hate  pins." 

She  threw  the  door  open  with  a  bang,  and  then 
stood  and  shook  her  little  fist  viciously.  The 
room  was  full  of  pins,  stacked  solidly  together. 
There  were  hundreds  of  them — thousands — mill- 
ions, it  seemed. 

"  I'm  glad  they  are  lost ! "  she  said.  "  I  wish 
there  were  more  of  them  there." 

"  I  didn't  know  there  were  so  many  pins  in  the 
world,"  said  Jem. 

"  Pooh  !  "  said  Baby.  "  Those  are  only  the  lost 
ones  that  have  belonged  to  our  family." 

After  this  they  went  back  to  Flora's  room  and 
sat  down,  while  Flora  told  Jem  the  rest  of  her 
story. 

"  Oh ! "  sighed  Jem,  when  she  came  to  the  end. 
"  How  delightful  it  is  to  be  here !  Can  I  never 
come  again  ?  " 

"  In  one  way  you  can,"  said  Flora.  "  When 
you  want  to  come,  just  sit  down  and  be  as  quiet 
as  possible,  and  shut  your  eyes  and  think  very 


236  Behind  the  White  Brick 

hard  about  it.     You  can  see  everything  you  have 
seen  to-day,  if  you  try." 

"  Then  I  shall  be  sure  to  try,"  Jem  answered. 
She  was  going  to  ask  some  other  question,  but 
Baby  stopped  her. 

"  Oh !  I'm  falling  awake,"  she  whimpered,  cross- 
ly, rubbing  her  eyes.     "  I'm  falling  awake  again." 

And  then,  suddenly,  a  very  strange  feeling  came 
over  Jem.  Flora  and  the  pretty  room  seemed  to 
fade  away,  and,  without  being  able  to  account  for 
it  at  all,  she  found  herself  sitting  on  her  little  stool 
again,  with  a  beautiful  scarlet  and  gold  book  on 
her  knee,  and  her  mother  standing  by  laughing  at 
her  amazed  face.  As  to  Miss  Baby,  she  was  cry- 
ing as  hard  as  she  could  in  her  crib. 

"  Mother ! "  Jem  cried  out,  "  have  you  really 
come  home  so  early  as  this,  and — and,"  rubbing 
her  eyes  in  great  amazement,  "  how  did  I  come 
down  ?  " 

"  Don't  I  look  as  if  I  was  real  ?  "  said  her  mother, 
laughing  and  kissing  her.  "  And  doesn't  your 
present  look  real  ?  I  don't  know  how  you  came 
down,  I'm  sure.     Where  have  you  been  ?  " 

Jem  shook  her  head  very  mysteriously.  She 
saw  that  her  mother  fancied  she  had  been  asleep, 
but  she  herself  knew  better. 

"  I  know  you  wouldn't  believe  it  was  true  if  I 
told  you,"  she  said ;  "  I  have  been 

Behind  the  White  Brick." 


